“The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.”

–Ludwig Wittgenstein

 

Emerson once wrote

that the first circle

is that of the eye.

My self fleshed in words

falls in a circle

that binds me to god.

My world’s in my voice

which whispers close by.

The first circle sees

these limitations

inscribed in thin lines

along the edges

of my fragile skin.

The weight of my words

holds me to the ground

where the air grows thick.

No fairy circles

exist to conjure

magic from a dance

only a few know.

I know my own dance;

each step a new world,

each thought adds new flesh

to my empty bones:

my thoughts embodied

in the day’s motion.

I wander slowly,

head bound in prayer,

obsessively lost

in the ancient turns

one must take each day

to gather the strands

that were left behind

by all the others

who tried to escape.

 

(June 14, 2018)