look out, more, go out
into the back yard of memory
out the back door of time
deep into the grassy minutes
grown over what has been discarded--
aspects of each green blade
unfathomable
hence
stuck at the root
unacknowledged
dear god, grant
your refulgent
dislodgement
to me, your problematic
servant--
how can i trust in you
when you made me so deeply
distrust myself, torqued beyond self
blade to blade strung by nothing stronger
than gossamer
as if of a spider's web--each strand
beaded
with clear dew?
memory, therefore, and with it
what one would assume to be
identity
nothing
but fiber-thin net
invisible and
so wet
so delicate
i am
strung out
on time
II
thereby counterdistinct
from it, yes?
not defined
by moments,
nor even, though
it is so hard
to give this away,
the lurking at the root.
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