Thursday, December 11, 2008

Not all concentrate on one

Or, Is he smiling?
Or, December 11th


It's not always possible, but here's what helps.
Clean sheets with a pattern of minute blue flowers.
The shutters open, preferrably on a screaming moon.
(This is important because she'll want to climb inside your
eyelids, and you'll want to fight her,
and you'll get to practice losing).
A pile of books on the night table.

Here is what you do.
Carefully finger the corners of the books, as full of
curiosity as if the finger belonged to someone else.
Page through the books as if they were full of bad
drawings by someone you love—show with your pace
and grace and steady breathing that you appreciate them
beyond judgment. Lie on your side then and survey
the pile of books from a little distance. Admire the corner
of the room, the way it is just itself. The bed is exactly this
far off the ground. Accept fully that you could die in the night.
Think how people who love you wouldn't like you talking
like this—smile because it's your own thought, silent and true.

The letting go will seem to you like many things at once.
A cutting of strings, a slowing of a complicated melody until—
not nothing. Not exactly. Something is always coming up
from the ground, making a steady sound like water settling
into soil but in reverse, flowing up into the shape of grass stems,
filtering up and asserting themselves in the bright darkness.

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