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My hands, my voice, my face −
things I might be used to by now.

I want to belong more
to such intimate things.

What view is necessary
to move through

this blue impermanence
expecting ground, but finding space

a motion both mundane
and incomprehensible

as the spontanaity of speech
as the indrawn breath

as the oxygen which spreads
to kindle its slow flame -

as threads of mycorhiza through
the forest litter.


I am told my walk is
a controlled fall

a rhythm of the flesh
an absurd inertia bound

to the body's pendulum
an aspen leaf in wind

a spider loosing threads
a pattern of nerves outcast

that give one world
and take all others:

as blue jays from an evergreen,
as wind-cast sparks from flame,

as precipitates of fire
in an abstract fall of fire

my hands, my voice, my face
to this physic I offer

1st know version Apr, 2002
Latest version Sep, 2006
This poem is nearing completion
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