like silence is loud, not a big mystery, illumination
& art. with inevitability with science, I swear it’s understood.
twain scenes, whished for cars, thirsty, made hungry,
born with color—
you
must know about it, it’s not a secret.
at a flicker to a flame, at a field of locusts, at a U-turn
& looking
at reality, moving in motion, & calling
Illuminati.
maybe Sheba is much too much, more ambitious at points:
she wasn’t meant but intended but
aesthetic. In remaining by grace.
to know what is lived: to sit at a campsite.
beyond symbols—beyond truly—beyond flesh: dipped,
cleansed, musky wilderness, bathing memories, ever washed.
I’d try at it, Rumi inspired, I’ve a task, to learn
trust—I expect mistakes, I’m repentant to it.
not for what it was, what it seems to be, asking
plainly: what is it?
each assigned to a slot, breaking it, if possible,
most know this.
winter brings a cycle to closing. spring gives birth
to selfsame cycle. oh furious flickering, silent loudness, interior pictures, tableaux
skies, xylophonic angst; if living is beautiful, if pains are natural, what’ve
healing? if permanence is myth, what of change? what of suffering? I’ve sung a
song, for oh so long—
lacking in love, abounding in charity, a full pledged paradox—
