Tuesday, November 8, 2011

In Contact With The Missing Contagion

Something. Perhaps a wrinkle in the skin near the wrist. Three shooting stars. What crossed before him as he walked in darkness. Can a sound be said to limp?

Can a memory justify anything? Something does. Yet we are not so ancient that just any memory will do. One considers light. One does.

Mathematics enters the writing, a critical union. How else would we know oneness. I write to circumvent an otherwise time-consuming learning. It is like sculpture. Or something.

What he meant to say was . . . It's in the lacunae or it's nowhere. Everywhere? What passed before me brought me up short, fully in contact with the missing contagion. Something divine we know as always.

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