This will be written on the body. Our body, surrounded by spirits and wind, long in voice and happy in mountain air. This bending form is always from now on, but also yesterday. Our arms the desert, our legs the jungle trees, our breath the urging wind. All the spaces between us, charged with electricity and rain. For this is the pause after the outbreath, after the poem, and whatever you there is, and whatever me there is, drift away, return, drift again. The way is to churn and bumble, say the silence, and begin.
The find is a finding
1 hour ago