Monday, June 5, 2017


I shouldn't write in this state, because I always do—every word malcontent, an indicative misnomer bathed in pathos. 

I do not know how to move through grief and simultaneously cultivate tender love. I am bumbling. A fool. A miscreant of non-contradiction.



I don't believe moving forward is a mistake, but I can't find the trick to landing beyond. I have found the snare of here and there. I am the larvae cocooned and the monarch in flight. I make love with time and all the winged things. I parse the self, the selves, the to and fro being of clustered things. The one and the many.

I am caught in heartbreak. I am surely given to love.

He is the net. She, the wings that beat within.

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