Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Webs Both Inner and Outer

One reclaims writing, the movement of it. All morning walking, tearing at webs both inner and outer, tormented as always by bibles with black covers. The sheath hides the blade. And hearts do break, and sorrow is never not in waiting.

I push past the logging trails, out to the old fire pond, and see deer grazing on the far shore. In last night's dream, fawns nuzzled my hand, exactly the way the calves once did. What leads anywhere goes nowhere. And yet.

One adopts a certain tenor depending on the audience. Expectations are resentments under construction. Seek only the movement that underlies all things, even thought. Beneath familiar pine trees, I cry softly, inventing again what never happened.

The study of history is simultaneously the study of confusion. But psychology is no better. One climbs a long flight of stairs to touch the stars only to learn they would have preferred to come down to us. We earn the capacity to forgive, but forgiveness itself is always given.

If I ask you to be naked, what will you say? One stumbles in the forest a long time before finding a trail which may - or may not - be the trail one was looking for. The honeysuckle blooms, and bluets riot in still-damp grass. Words are one way, touch another: is there a third?

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