Listening to

the
time
of
a
child
is
a
line
that
floats
a silvered soft fog rain
from within
an already-there-yet-not-quite-here-speed
of a worldcollected into a single tumbling drop
tossed along the shouting wind
of sunsplit inseparabilities
drips pink and purple grenades
onto a quivering perch of petals
risks meniscus-momentous explosions
and other curious silences
lobs laughter-slivered feathers
across the stickystumblingfaceofgod

"I think about hell every day." (Christopher, age 9)


"...a something that is both going to happen and has just
happened...It is the world itself, and the horse and the child,
that cease to be subjects to become events in assemblages
that are inseparable from an hour, a season, an atmosphere,
an air, a life....the two are strictly inseparable.
Climate, wind, season, hour are not of another nature
than the things, animals or people that populate them,
sleep and awaken within them....
'the thin dog is running in the road, this dog is the road',
cries Virginia Woolf. That is how we need to feel."
(Deleuze and Guattari, ATP)