vii
you see it
but what it is
is only as a glimpse silhouette
and measure it (but)
by a portion of our bodies
as it once was
as if to say everyone is like everyone
and achievement then is real
and the standard for truth can be found in a hand
as if we could shake on it
like trust was built into the way we use our bodies
and our doing marked our way
what it is, is invisible
though it’s real as rocks
light floats through it
like the unraveling of velvet in teacup hands
crinkled in poem covered prayers
rustling down my arms, exhaling into the space between music and song
so as a forehead gently lowered into oaken candlelight
we search to find the edges of the world
carefully
with
carefully
as if trying to feel the small hairs on your skin as their own
as if they send lightening-bolts through you
as if to keep your breathing
you must stop it
and touch just so
where any further or closer
a palace crumbles in the
air
“When an inner situation is not made conscious, it appears outside as fate.”
- C.G. Jung