The Open Window

It’s cold, and a love-couch. It must be the contact, the surface

It’s got to be the shallow stuff, the breaking-the-surface thing

That thing that sings its way into the bowels of the thing, that thing

Tension that breaks and becomes self-realized. The stuff of source, which is never seen

That thing

Then, there’s the other thing. The one open on the other side, of things

That thing

But, I keep looking at the glass between, the skim-off of cream at the seam

Of that thing

It lurks behind brain-matter, waiting to sing, that thing

Like it never was, it disappeared without a trace


Nesting Wrenches


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