Wednesday, February 16, 2011

268. When you think that it is

not quite
or most
of all
but close
& given
to thinking
of ways
to make
what it is
that seems
unmade made
at a time
& in a way
that requires
what thought
would be
enough
thought
to have to
allow
the time
needed
to be a
person
of interest
& effort
effortlessly
moving through
the makings
of a life
without a
notion of
what might
come before
whatever
must come
at the end
to allow
that result
desperately
wished for
to materialize
as solid
& real as
a breath
suspended
in mid-air
& mid-winter
& the way
a turn of
the head
changes
a point
of view
gives
the sense
that a
new world
has opened
before your
resplendent
delicious
& ruining
itself through
a delicate
deliquescence
which is
merely
the process
of living
& then
living out
having lived
through a
process of
being through
to a state of
perfect &
ineluctable
stasis
such that
you could
never
imagine
& you know
you’ve tried
because
there was
always the
nightmare
that we
wouldn’t
escape
from the
dream
& that
every
thought
would be
an unthought
& every
breath
unreal
every thing
seen or
felt or
believed
just a myth
of memories
a mistake
of perfection
by which
you would
mean
perception
except that
it would be
a dream
world
without
wires or
tubes or
oxygen to
keep you
asleep &
dreaming
through
a life
rummaging
through an
imagination
hardly big
enough to
give you
the space
to set free
whatever
was needed
to breathe
clear
as if breathing
sunshine
& the warmth
of it filling
your lungs
to the tender
point just
before
bursting
with
happiness.

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