The gesture solidified makes type.
Woke from worlds
and worlds awoke in me
photophobic soil dwellers
It is decided that memories are best bought. There is a heavy stone trough, redolent of daily life in a rustic setting. It is imported into my garden. I do not have any livestock which may drink from it. When it came to installing the plumbing for the hand pump, I ran out of money. If it rains, the trough is full of water. There is moss, and eventually a certain amount of slime.
Worlds awake from the stone.
Ghosts of horses
ghosts of dung
the flower beds are trampled all over.
Awaking from the green water, strange squiggles of living things.
Soon the insects bite.
Woke to the words (and it is only ever words which wake me):
be prepared to be
on your way
on that last day.
The same shone first (and if ever anything wakes me it is only light).
Shone first, shines within, and this same light will shine out at last.
The word wordless when these, wordless, have many sayings
yet little string to hold them.
So how is it, wordless and stringless, they have their world strung together?
twisted around this fallen knowing
of forgetting a candle.
Neither fire nor smouldering
just the gathering
in anticipation of together.
Another note of repose
enthusiasm prodded toward meeting in the future.
The paradoxical catalyst
changes actively and
the most urgent to say
the most unspeakable vastness.
Of this there comes
a soft persisting and particular ethic.
From hearing the story
it is recognised
we do indeed know the answer
indeed we know
of how the unity urged upon us
of how this is in accord
and this which is of the creative
this is held.
If there is a perfection
of the hidden self
then self hidden is perfect
and that it is hidden must be part of this perfection.
For self to be self
which is to come to its perfection
self must yet be turned out into the world.
Wide Wanderer they call self, Wide-Traveller.
It is said that the self will re-shod your horse.
Leave it by the smithy overnight
just an appropriate gift.
Self to self giving.
Self to self given over
the wandering, turning self out
from the hidden to the open
road travelled to seek the activity of the perfect,
tattered paths of the simply sought.
The perfection of the hidden self
which is hidden therefore perfect
cannot yet attain perfection anywhere but in the open.
The wreckage of destabilised tribes.
Stones in the dell.
These stubborn dreams still trip us up.
The self in the world is ever an imperfection;
the back and forth vulnerable