Mar
20
2014

I assume every atom invites our soul. It knows things we do not.

I lean observing a spear of the same grass blade and now hoping to cease from inadequate creeds and nature. Houses and rooms, the shelves honor and unaware—the atmosphere is wooden and naked.

The full noon rising from bed, so proud that it knows the meaning of its origin.

We shall no longer take things nor always look through books.

We shall not look to ourselves.

I have heard of the beginning and there was never any youth or perfection, out of the dimness always increase and identity, always distinction, always elaborate.

Here we are lacking not a thing, proven with each turn.

We think we are satisfied.

People we meet, we live with them—authors who invite us to dinner—these nights bend certain rest, come backward through the fog and spread limitless like a child laying outstretched in the grass.

Now it seems to us, here we are uttering in faint tongues that we wish we could with ease translate. How could we answer, I do not know.

I guess it means we give the same—understanding that somewhere, the moment life appeared we knew it, but somehow have much of it forgotten.


In: Poetry
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