on the higher
octave of the river,
the ripples above the flowing line,
where paradigms
form and dissolve
as the clouds fall
in a rich broth
for freedom's creation.
The water turns violet
and so do our minds
as we look,
as the lock of
seed and ovum achieves
the greater sight
where all that's left is
a blessing to give,
a warble in the stillness,
where all that is
is so far
is so far
out of reaching
but lives to have its existence
given life
— forgiveness to all
that grew out of a deeper
need to be real,
but jettisoned from that
like a breath, not to
journey back,
but to be perceived,
loved into being,
what form only
contains.
but to be perceived,
loved into being,
what form only
contains.
This was desire once,
these trees, these stones, these people,
but the lover can't
remember,
it only marvels at how close
remember,
it only marvels at how close
they can come to its hidden,
unknowable heart.