Monday, May 9, 2016

All These Absences

Naming anything - flowers, birds, satellites - no longer demands attention. Perhaps righteousness abounds naturally, or there really is only one thing. We are what we are and so is the collective? One hesitates to say it that way, yet does, lacking any other inclination. Organization abounds as well, you have to see that. The sea accepts our gouging of earth and we call it a canal and that's what it is, a canal. Nobody cares about your ancestors! The almighty filter of self, the paradox inherent in thought. We herded sheep through tall grass after days of rain and came in winded, happy, hungry. She pulls her robe tighter, her smile tightens as well and this is where we are, which includes where we are going. For example, my body which softens and sags, which looks at last toward sleep, and is given to no one. I bury the birds for her - two fledglings, one adult - and wonder again at the proximity of graves and sorrow. Father is the wound I want to parent. The calf was wrapped in burlap and saying it so often is what? A kind of prayer, a kind of guess again? Cartography was waiting to be discovered, the same as modality. Yet we stumble, don't we? Into these arms, out of those. Maybe it doesn't matter given a cup of tea or coffee but still. All these absences darken in an almost threatening way, almost as if there are words I have yet to learn, or must.

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