to type without stopping.


What shape was I given so that I came to love sharp things,
so that I hunted the hunting grounds, already my feet supple as leather
my step as lithe and quiet as twilight softening the blow
of day leaving, letting in gently the night, neither for one or the other
but knowing the necessity of both, waving bent, Come, Come

Let me cradle the light but let me love the dark things.


On either side of me there is always blooming.
I carry boulders to know their density
to feel with longing
the heft of such weight
Not to bloom but to be thrust into the water and sink with precision.


As heavy as I am as heavy as I am as heavy as I am I am likely to float I am likely to be moved without resistance that is what shocked me the most this not knowing this unbelievable ability to float without roots and to let in any crow or creature of the forest as they wished to crawl into my inside spaces and take up room there and take up home there and stretch their roots through my veins and hold me in place when before I could not hold my place I sparkled I shimmered and moved and was flimsy and gauzy and I drew in and imagined sensations imagined myself a lover kept my arms circling to draw in water as it drew me out not knowing how it worked not knowing there was much of me to be filled in not knowing the potential of water to drown from the inside like too thirsty not to drink even if it kills me all the same who gave me this shape and let me float away untying the string thinking it’s okay if she drifts how easy to not wake up when you are being lulled by your own movements floating along through the drifts being one with the snow and one with the water and never really understanding the weight of dirt and rocks and roots and things because never once belonging there and so what happens when water meets land like this or light strikes against something impermeable like coal or depths too deep to be reached there is a shock there are reverberations there are constant waves once you know once it was shown to me about primary waves and secondary and all the other sonar possibilities and then it was impossible not to know that even though there was nothing to be seen there was so much there around all of the time like the way stars are there during the day time just waiting for the light to slip loose-footed back down under the horizon where infinite depths of land could lay in the possibility one wakes up knowing the imagined sensations the imagination of being a lover and knowing it wasn’t quite a dream

There’s much left to touch

But knowing a robbery has occurred waking up here naked not understanding my own shape not knowing anything beyond this body have I met this body before is this my body

Here I am now grasping frantically at the specks of myself so eager to float away to be reflected dust particles in thin rays of light flimsy as a torn spiderweb accidentally passed through trying to pull that all back in and fill my palm waking up with the sheets kicked off the bed the pillows on the floor hanging head half to the floor this is what it feels like to wake up still grasping desperately at a dream not remembered –


I could never write it all to be enough anyway. There is too much weight to cope with. I would never give it all to you.


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