The stars are in our belly; the Milky Way our umbilicus.
Is it a consolation that the stuff of which we’re made
is star-stuff too?
– That wherever you go you can never fully disappear –
dispersal only: carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen.
Tree, rain, coal, glow-worm, horse, gnat, rock.
Friday, 28 December 2012
and there is such a relief in this suspension from the endless becoming of everything – though still the stream in the valley naked and full as in pregnant harries and rushes the edges of the land and its chattering of secrets distracts so I tune it out and gaze again
this pure moon sky
and the ash twigs and me suspended in a kind of calm like the minute hiatus where the lungs are neither on exhale nor inhale but a moment fleet eternal like the old year winding down to zero but the new not-yet-born-into coming-to-pass (into transience)
in the hedge the creamygreen phosphorous glow of the new hellebore flowers the soft high chatter of the roosting redwings
and I think of the clutter of consciousness the clitter and chatter of thought and emotion that becomes who we think we are and the endless craving the narcissism the way we paint each others' faces with the I want I need of our own dreams and fears
the complex jangle along the entangled ganglia when I look at you so that my thoughts churn back and over and nothing ever seems simple
and how hard to still ourselves enough to really witness the here now of this ticking earth beneath my bootsoles and the dreaming wren and vole in the hedgerow
and how tired I am of the endlessness of it all
yet when I stare long enough the way the shadows of the hedge simply dissolve this I this you this pissy little bundle of ego and atoms into a kind at last
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