.
When we stand
on the pier
looking Islandward,
some kindly
but strange streams
of thoughts
crowd out
the mundane, letting
clarity grow a
crowd of salted drops
and one time sandstone.
.
Emersion in
beyond here notions
become flat
and senseless. some
hands touched
fade and sensation
slips into a hazed
congregation
witnessed numbing
out the main
horizon.
.
Stroking oars now,
a manic moment
as motion out of pain
and privation,
as a dominant
under-motivationed
flow idly slaps
your sandals shoreside.
A simple act actually.
Blink.
.
Landing on a verdancy
of unknowns,
remembering water
lapping bare toes
as incense burns,
as a breeze fumbles,
as charm as a
temporality passes.
Staying is a thing,
a foregone item.
Drifting with no gravity
has a multiplicity
of possibilities.
.
Dim is also a view.
Detachment walks all
the all into a break
from breath, from
seeing, from cognizance.
Freedom is never
safe shores on real sand.
Truth? It is the letting go.
.
Lady A
01-21-21
426a
Detroit, Michigan
.