from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (57)
I walk out into the brush
into a world not home
and there in the stream
in the moon-bright sky
I look form mirror
to water to window
and the air
blurs what I see
when I read it blurs
everything i’ve read
and like memory it becomes
what I know now
what I knew then
the story is seen
as what it is
always present
always a lie
(April 25, 2020)
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