There is only unrepeatability. The sun
Comes up from the night bringing it form.
It is expected. Metaphorized. Distanced. Not to feel
fear of the dank crowded earth each time, of
darkness overwhelming. We crouch and wait in that house that is dawn.
We strut. We tell ourselves lies that are longings. How to prepare for the thing that has
not happened? The languished pink clover petals today soften me. They will straighten with some rain. This is the season for memory, never to repeat, to turn the raw sight to illusion.
We can try mostly what is easy and slides down the throat like a clotted egg, or insist on difficulty, when each moment that could break off in the hands gushes
Spiral Orb is an experiment in juxtaposition, interrelationships, and intertextuality— a cross-pollination. This opening poem composts fragments from each of the…
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