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“A possible distance where mud leaves letters on the lining”

As if anything were truly capable
of being chewed over
not the shorter types
(both ideals and withdrawn sympathy)
that harvest themselves in our heart
with nothing to do
but recompose themselves
as if crucially someone else’s narrative

I have been forgiven
exactly where there is very little room to understand why
and who has the authority
suddenly (even) like the wonderment of leaves
that collect by the strong hand of the wind
it is only myself
letting nothing and something define so very little
still not so able to be seen
how one’s own hands could be themselves a composure

at less background filling for color that dis-fits
the primary able memory
I could barely say is some minor detail
I have triumphed over

in the stills (of October)
or ranges roundness that bends itself
over water curve and land mass
undisturbed by my habit for being disturbed
I begin to think I might love, even, all that I still can’t comprehend
which includes people
and the places (some in the heart)
some in the mind
that have left burnt outlines
where memory congeals swallowing
only the idea of the harm,
the unmeant word

this does not mean a different composure
it is, very well, the only composure

still, there are leftover unmarked corners
where a new type of sadness could emerge
that takes charm
to love the un-feeling type of moment
in it’s own kernel-
breath, divine or not-
but still a gift.

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