There is a yellow paper origami bird that sits on my dashboard. It smells like the sun. Citrus with overtures of vanilla.
I'm growing terse, this shows itself in light.
Not how it pools and dimples, but how it shreds.
And the "thisness" shows thin in all I have'nt read, all I still do not know, and all that I am or can ever hope to be.
Equal parts of sun and shadow, eleven books combined...or infinity.
Unlike calculus, there is no right answer.
But never mind this....what about there?
Have you ever noticed that there is simply not enough thereness?
And there are never enough seconds between now and the tick towards whatever it is that is yet to come.
Maybe a simple case of occlusion to time disarmament, and the need to be ever watchful of the rhythm found in dusk ,dawn, encounters at eight, or the setting sun as it arcs over Wicklow Ireland or Ambler Alaska.
I don't want either place.
I want somewhere where the wind whips wild enough to have tendrils of hair constantly stuck in my lip gloss.
Neither here nor there, but where bears and their stories can remain solidly lakeside, tending fish thick,and bonding with the embankment.
Give me some light and a book.
I once knew a boy whose kiss was the sun melting. Wax played no part. I remember a violin, thinly sliced pancetta and rug burns...in abundance.
I almost got a tatoo of the sun once, but then turned to constellations and fell into them, lost in their patterns of lesser light ...and held with temptation.
The sun hides behind shades in my house most days. Why I don't know, especially with beams bright enough to burn me out of insanity.
And the day follows " in Stachia" and sings en voz alta "Ode to Joy."
It's the one reason I rise to light.
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