Sometimes it’s too much to write,
and you can’t absorb meaning.
When significance has encircled you,
the essence of anything reads as hostile.
Not because you can’t see beauty,
not before you haven’t dreamed widely,
not ahead of distance you’ve celebrated
In these moments short isn’t a word.
Neither fast, small, insignificant.
Neutral is a privileged meaning,
where we have greeted our experiences with a channel that reduced our sensitivities.
Syllables catching where one swallows,
tongues caught on whatever they got caught in.
Not with a white flag,
unless a body collapsing counts.
like how sand becomes the shore.
Not on your way to something,
though you are still being transported.
In between the lesson and what’s coming,
and my body uncoils it’s stubborn sensitivities.
elements of energy lifted like dust.
Maybe appearing captivating in the right light,
but no more beautiful from changed labels.
When nothing is beautiful,
we are allowed to dismiss niceties.
Distillation assumes that what gets organized will be separated,
scattered from us,
What distillation breaks up,
our bodies take longer to integrate.
Can’t be sure if they can let go
of this door knob without a door
or this travel mug missing a lid
or this lengthy ache that goes with everything in the kitchen,
and the living room,
and the bedroom,
and the basement.
That in the right setting can be made beautiful.
Persisting in spite of our labels
offered to hide our impatience.
catch on our tongues,
and our attempts to swallow,
as meaning encircles us,
and a part of us can’t care.
Somehow what remains sensitive,
is the least beautiful,
the least described,
and still as necessary as swallowing air.
Indifferently time passes,
knowing what we don’t say
hangs on our tongues.
Perhaps we could care if our bodies had been cared for sooner,
but who wants to hear that.