randomized belongings

 
 
          two fish swimming. third comes swimming past.
          morning boys, third fish says, how’s the water?
          says first to the second, what’s water?

          paraphrase from a commencement speech given by
          David Foster Wallace, Kenyon College, May 21, 2005

 
 
each moment, smaller than an atom is.
each excited body more fleet than half a radius.

least and forever holding hands like kin.
brother, sister, unpredictable till past tense.

light illuminates objects.   no objects, no light.
swimmers know water by touch.

no caress, no body.

what do we hold onto and what do we let go?

lay down.   here’s creation being supple.
all around and inside.   you too.

swimming.   how we exchange a mouth for food,
how we cook using two palms, how we pray.

swimming.   by touch we observe, take, change,
make bigger, make smaller.   lingering.

unfolding real time on our lips,
the time it takes for [story] is the same as [you].

quiet gestures get learned like arteries and veins
in trees.   seasons change color but not substance.

after observation shadow begins to emerge.
what is and what is not.   flesh becomes the same.

see [shadows of string on white walls].
see [shadows of your face etched in light].

let poems choreograph your shape.

devotion.   the notion of devotion implies nothing
about the object of devotion.   devotion don’t need
to be a two way street.

somewhere between soak and the scrub I’m hoping
for a sudden breakthrough into new named skin.

use your tongue to taste the air on our
fingertips.

what we see tells us who we are.

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