attempting again proximity with the dead as though they stay in place unmoved stop
as though I could measure closeness if I scratched it with tiny marks stop
opened again the fine pleating that opening each time damages stop
as if it were a stranger’s hand my hand again replaying the reaching out it failed to do stop
gauging the weight of each inherited object ignoring the object itself stop
dwelling increasingly on the floor between memory and involuntarily pushing memory away stop
a few darknesses are inward a few are outward pointing branches in a stand of poplars stop
reason can’t bring over something on the verge of real but unwilling to become it stop
I can paint any blue on a ceiling and none on the sky please advise
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Tags: Ahsahta Press, Rusty Morrison, The True Keeps Calm Biding Its Story
deluge of bric-a-brac is reality &then what else matters?
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