on with this or that small section of the whole –
when, uncontrollably, another part cries out for you
to complicate the fold – and there you are again –
amassing disembodied
limb and tint and mind and hue
and heart:
something possibly to do with art: scattered hints, perhaps tomorrow, with some luck, you might
just find instructive – if Imagination will resuscitate
its pluck, permit
the blessing of some coalescence –
wait to bait
you into the creation of another singing thing. It’s the sort of random outcome some deep
yearnings have been not unknown to bring.
.
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