tying 1000 threads
and retying
knotting
adjusting
making missed measures
not understanding
weary
worried
yet
at
peace



with each thread I think of you

you

now archeology

history

and yes even the fiction you loved



I realize practice is remembering

tying is breath

I realize the futility of making in a world too full

of mourning the inevitable

still I tie

looking at each knot

judging its inaccuracy

how much imperfection can I live with?

how many times will I default and renew instead of abandon?

it's a simple repetition

like calling your name or death itself

eidolonic intramission

m o t h e r

second year
hurts like hell

d o n e

I thought it would
but it has not.
It is as it was -
incapable of falling away.


Not to speak.
Secluded.
Awakened.


That which was so hard to do

just  drops  off.



"... he has nothing of his own, before, after,
or in between ..."

thermal
green

a hammer

the rhythm it takes to drive in metal

three blows, nine

obligato

anniversary

one  year  here