I was with a thought. Life is delicate. So much of which is irrelevant.
Made privy at times, dealing with it, wondering how un-precious it all is.
It will never be what it never was, so systematic, so exclusive, knowing now old folk tales.
I was with a thought, ignoring reality, becoming more of what debates—it means so little, to become sweet burden, so determined.
Something wrestles reflection, something sees illusion, deep drumming, seismic rustling. I was with a thought: I saw a face: such radical dreams.
Needing that one element, in every creature alive, to look, tease, and say: “I’m with you.”
