(November 30, 2018)
In an instant
the whole world cleaved
there is nothing defining me
besides being mum
and inarticulate. But there’s beauty
in that, surely. Who weaved
the gold thread through me
like an ornament or tampon string
too loose to be plucked
but begging to be pulled, a lunar
uncorking, a tassel swinging like
a pendulum sweeping the floor.
White space of my life defined me.
I tumbled out of a mess of limbs.
To archive my notes and writing notebooks; entires excerpted in random order. Purpose unknown, save for preservation, discovery, and perhaps a pliable (re)engagement with soft ideas.