from The Selfer
Not knowing I came to find things colorful watery and kind
In absence I lawful, wary cinders find . Unkindred,
one flower wilts on the sill when the next is opening. Naturally.
The difference between fantasy and prayer is innocence.
What if wish & love opened at the same time?
Then you would be bored, you say, even though not here.
(Thus without freedom does the populace
for something truly round, angle
Armed, wrangling " you"
in the bloom. What "ever" on dream's shelf,
in sleep, is wilting. Neither, none.
To clip bliss from its opposite: silence. Yet
on top the
night's helm my howling, starless
stark Ahems, the tyrant Aha's.
word-holds hoof and scrape
thought's stable. Only the heart's able,
from port of stem,
to hold as words do, quiet ground:
If I speak
I'm jarred and canned,
Why do I have
to be other than I am
if as truth I want to be the same?
are not that, which only meets itself.
scarce is wonder,
the light in mind that blooms
deliberation, fell into.
what are You,
apart from thought and breath,
not managed -
must have found
the falling proper.