Words written on paper laid over
A fire, and just before flame breaks through
The letters awake, and everything that they tell makes a little vibration you shiver to see:
Time is so young that it never gets past trying quick dramas like that.
Or in a mirror you glimpse a huge anchor-hook too strong ever to bend, wrenched
And bent. That is the image where
So you see anything needed: you don’t need
anything lifted, but to see that some
Things cannot be. A dream,
A poem, a picture gives what you need.
Or by a hand like someone’s you put your
Is hand: nothing felt but -the truth when
They touch, and unspoken questions. Answering them, you carry forward that version of the world
That makes up its most dangerous
Time, the hours of your life.
Or there is a spry little animal
The color of ink that wiggles through
Perils and comforts, but never stays,
And while you whistle it along new paths
It always makes an inspired escape
And softly dives for life like this across the page.
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