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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