we climb the continual

we are each born into this world with a dream.

when we first arrive, we know it to our core.

 

as time—and we—unfold, we begin to forget;

it burrows back down into our recesses.

 

sometimes small glimpses will come to the

surface, if we allow space: a painted picture, a

 

sculpted pot, a sleeping story. unmet dreams

follow us en masse down dark side streets,

 

find us in all-night conversations,

meet us under a portal of stars.

 

we climb the continual spiral—

toward voice, birth, source, love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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turret syndrome

in concentric circles

these sun-saturated planks

 

constrict the heart

of the house,

 

make it feel — over

and over again.

 

in slippery socks

you walk the ranks

 

you know so well,

eyes shut.

 

floating far above in a spiral-pocket

of deadening air, a hair of respite

 

plucked from the hard

wick of existence.

circles