one-room heart-house

the world is almost germane;


a series of

short siren films stitched together

by forbearance.


my bubba used to say:

if it wasn’t so difficult,

it wouldn’t be worth as much.


if i had to sing about it —

to an audience,

to my child,

to my self —


i would sing the same refrain again and again

(once is not enough; you must rinse and repeat):


the pain does not have the last say.

the pain does not have the last say.


play your story, your magnanimous

(great soul) instrument;


wake from tactile dreams and feel

the many things you cannot take with you:


the blue-gray necktie; the shoe shine kit; the warm ringed hand —


the objects you treasure, carry, move, and bury,

but that cannot pass from this side to the next —


the hot chocolate pastry; the smartest technology; the deep sea.


remember these symbols, these

crucibles of meaning and memory;


they stand in for the spirit; contain

the turbulence, the heavens, the fury —


until such a time as they are obviated; no longer needed;

setting free the beautifully sentient


for what is to come.



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