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On Turning an Age

What have I learned but
Somethings about nothings
Heart is wild animal
Wild animal is pilot.

Life is absence much as presence,
names, stones, the splitting of sticks
missyous strewn across the holy scape like erratics.
Cavern deep, rope narrow
one day bow, next day arrow.

Some verses will be supermarket queuing to buy
discounted cleaning spray
and words may not mean tomorrow what they mean today
but breeeeeeeeathe;
dig for voice when you strain from want to say,
though we know that the roll of the tune can matter
more than the words we sing
and power is busy and to its children will cling
and what really punctures us happens faraway
to the hearts of others.

And water can shimmer and glint and take our weight and
contain everything that we meant and
hold us in and hold us up if we only stroke stroke strooooke
past the depths where we sank and
the shores where we broke.

And from a distance many things sit pretty but
touch is the more true
and through parts of me folds the feel of

And times we sow solitude and let it grow
teeth that chew loneliness into
this coat rack we call soul
whose shadows are never quite the whole
even if they towering sway and
you may not be tomorrow who you are today.

This is the way:
light will play on the surfaces and
we will dream forwards and backwards and
Love is wild animal
Wild animal is pilot.

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