The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Friday, January 13, 2023

off the shore of oneself as in

sometimes you can’t stay on your own mainland. some story of exile, unique each time: a home you feel apart from rather than of 

the re-negotiation among space and rulership. an aimless god, his insistence ona fantasy of order 

the number you call to confirm the time, that tells you where to go by putting you there—horizon beyond the heart you know best—so it hurts, so you learn. 

the aimless god in you, his lucite throne, the space you’ve made, what you could imagine from whence you came 

Renia White

 

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