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Ode to a Home in the Offing


a tank of fish


piñata-like overhead,

on the crane that we call possibility.

The crane of change,

where each of us hangs in the balance.

Veiled finishes assert themselves

bold only in their unwillingness to reveal anything,

The tao that can be spoken is not the eternal tao.

Gauntlet so thrown,

we sketch more assiduously upon our blueprints,

our desperation to create drives us forward.

We keep moving.

Severe tire damage possible.

Don't back up.

An especially big window appears,

as quickly as does the massive transparency of being.

All this arises atop the foundation of human visions merging,

as two particular lives merge.

(the window will of course blink closed again,

and the opening and closing is nothing

if not inevitable, and interminable)

This is the stuff of an idea, taking hold;

the dissolution of one life

and the collusion with the promise of another.

And so on and so forth, as just another day springs into being.

and we remember -- or we don't -- the subtle gestures that keep

love alive,

and the equally important feeding of the fish.

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