Maybe I’ve gone over my quota of words today. Maybe I already put down all the words I had. All these words are left over and odd. I want to reach through them. No longer satisfied with a clever turn of phrase or nuanced association, or demonstration of knowledge of forms and colors of perception, how do I get through?
I’m satisfied with the many descriptions. None of them work without the what of it. I wouldn’t even know if they did or didn’t without that. I feel my mortality. I feel its fragility, its robustness, its ache to be. In move and be move. His athletic voice, pursuing the ends of understanding propels him. Her elastic meanings so different, charmed.
When he said howl he did to be carried. Of his he made a chariot. The sun made fog all day while I looked the devil in the eye. Legs of combat mounted for embrace. I’ve been saying yes, and there is a growing roar. I’m not in this to find my comfort here.
What no is where I need to add? Which bridge will char? He suffers and there is no cure. He was it long before his voice called out. With these words, the clatter is shuffled. Dropping its leaves means for you, it is now Spring.
And for us—a kite never thinks it needs the string.
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