Thursday, August 10, 2017

Only Apt Response to Anything

Let the vagrant drifting quantities of lengthening late  
summer light as they begin to tumble toward the night
bestow their strange alluring modal breaths – as if imbuing
air with music, deftly draining thought of all its expectation,
framing inner sight: so that what starts to fill you up
is something like the brightness someone blind might

conjure in her mind as she begins to find that somewhere
in the Universe exists experience of seeing. Shut your eyes;
unplug your last reflex assumption: make oblique departure
from the usual compartments of your being: then deploy
a dab of the contained immensity of this dimension like a rub
of gleaming paint upon a bristling tiny splice of space and time:

weave with it a chain of silver rhyme – drop it glittering into
the palm of the amorphously gemütlich suddenly availing god
you’ll see, who’ll guide you to the Odd. Then let the gentle
fellow float you down with him back through your soft façade.
Listen to him sing about the law of awe: how it’s the only apt
response to anything. Wait for what all that will bring!


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