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  • How did this begin?

    I fall backward and remember to let go. I am in one dimension, and the heart is everywhere, no ragged threads of story to complete or tuck away, nothing out of reach.

    There is a fountain at the center, and imperceptibly it defies me to live in just that way: beyond gravity and entropy--or rather in playful condescensions thereof--and poised with impeccable serenity amidst the burbling flow of being, the verdant flood and ashen retreat of slow seasons.

    We probably thought love was a kinetic switch, and the other (or The Other) would coyly hit it, banishing our thirst to cordial memoir.

    But it is not clear, wherefrom the basin is refreshed, where it all started and why. This has plagued me. I was a tall edifice, dutifully crafted, and wanted to have her in me like living water, always on--dancing, sumptuous.

    It's a desert out beyond that barricade; I learned. Grow stern, vitrify all your adolescent causeways and plunge to war with crucial appetite and best training, to guard this precious holy draught, the dew-drops in our labored breathe...

    I could never speak to her. It was all my failure and lack and such a great wall that I could not see over and tell which side was mine; see that I was in tatters on parched ground, groping rock outcrops and kissing for an impossible sip somewhere far from time.

    Narcissus in the dry plain, whilst time is ever round and full. Something broke at that place we speak of "In the beginning..." and so it needed to.

    Something broke loose when I lost that vision of twin-as-one. All the knowing, the wanting, the inheritance of lineal ages, came unfrozen and repurposed, in my wry fire, my nile tide.

    And so I needed; to charge this ancient floodplain with glacial till and mangled fecund dream, dried blood stain, bits of fingernail and twirled hair. I needed to rend the silence with not a word but a step, a shovel stroke, a deep bow.

    This was love, and a long blight.

    But too, comes life: new arbors rising as if by grace and subtle design; the clean stones of an old wall litter ground that I will make a plaza. A Place, a portion.

    Here, real and changing, cloud fancies wreathe us in promise underway to the lessons of her touch.

    In the center, my antechamber, an imperishable fountain confounds me, still.
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