Sleep only added to the paralysis,
an anonymous air behind a closed door.
The self is the burden; the allure of non-
existence. But blood always makes a plea
as rivers and mountains do as they do
without an end. And the containment
of mono-singular life can keep being
relearned as illusion. Guarded castles
and fantasies in the no-man’s land
of which the villagers fabricate such
great stories. One could almost die
by them. So the sky now, again, has
the reoccurring appeal.... not for its lack,
for the expanse....rooftops revealed as
mute stones beneath clear-cold water,
atmospheric wind..... Where does
one find one’s self once the front
has died down? Back on the ground
not so much as you, but another place
where more things are made. Meadows
of flowers, shorelines of fish, millennia
forests lined with myriad eyes on watch
both day and night. Places to stand barefoot.
Rather than some other new beginning--
an assimilate of personal projections
that will wear the hands into the grains,
through the currents, onto the petals,
lifting and leaving traces of loss while
all remains existing. A continuant more.