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“The Bread and The Foster Child”

“The Bread and The Foster Child ”

I cross that threshold only at the expense of another,
it’s what is not included in this life, that denies itself to itself,
to be calling things an arrival, were it us (displaced)
how might we call a habitation a memory?
That thin line developed geography of our migration
tested at it’s own limits.

We are happening to be happening
even more so, if it were a pair of things
traced
first our always sacramental signature,
the word of a necessary recognition that finds its place
in the indent of (pure) form.
A species of stars is now recognized
as a cure for our blindness-
historical location unnerved, but, as it enters itself,
recalling no elsewhere-
which is why nothing can regret its own understanding.

But is that so? (so-so)
this sacramental nomination only comes
when something has been spoken
and for the first time-
that body that went to water
only seperated itself from a substance
until it knew how to name it

When the female spoke, “This room needs light”,
but I insist I must know exactly what objects are to be called first
before one can go to a thing like ‘light’,
before making allowance for that substance
in the space of this room
we are calling to each other
from, some thing else enters, it seems
an indistinct but palpable threat.

Here is where we are
only at the back of the thing-
the memory
where we pace up to its gap
in awe.

The introduction of our birth names,
and then: the forgetting of our introduction.
Can there still be an ‘ourselves’ any longer?
Past the time when we cannot even be of time?

Do we speak to each other because we feel we are from
a common matter?
Or because we have remembered to do something as iterable
as throwing sound toward another?

Is there still a way to learn (how) to learn the other?
The moment of being up against something we don’t have the speech for yet?
At the other side of our space
where something more (human) humble is asked for.

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