What is the show? What makes it whole?
Perhaps it’s like the rain, or sun, or snow,
or fog – a sort of meteorologically
unavoidable phenomenon of doggedly
determined soul – evincing temperature
or fog – a sort of meteorologically
unavoidable phenomenon of doggedly
determined soul – evincing temperature
and wind, humidity: tactile haptic certainty –
a palpability that adds to actuality – finding,
filling absence – insisting it’s as indispensable
as air. But now I look and nothing quite
like
that is there, or here. Or rather, what
I feel now –
what I now discern as real – is more
elusive
even than a propagating atmosphere.
The darkest curvatures of night retain a
seed
of some full panoply: ready always to incite
–
and germinate inside the womb of Cosmos’
eerie light – beckoning whatever whirls,
abounds, resounds, perturbs. New ecstasies
find words. Few nouns –
innumerable verbs.
.
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