She tells me:
use your senses
more.
So I concentrate,
pull in
bits
of
murky-water
world,
rub it
beneath
my
fingers
like
small
glass marble
made
from
cold
bleached
cloud.
Tastes dense
like
home-made
bread
and apple butter,
sour and empty as
thirst,
rich and full
like
marina sauce,
angel hair,
safety
of being.
Sounds like
laughter
fashioned from
strength
and pain,
soothing
rhythm of
friendship
whispers,
fire-place
crackles
of acceptance
and warmth.
Hurts like
sewing a
wound shut,
and
also
like not being
enough.
Looks like
pale fingers
in candle-light,
reckoning
with world,
coming to terms
with
distant
humanity.
Feels like
drowsy warmth
wrapping
blankets
of sincerity
around my
shoulders,
prickles
of fir trees,
aches of
feverish want,
pillowing sleep,
longings
for wholeness,
emptiness poured out,
filled
with reconnection
to soul
and
to self.
These senses
are too human,
they run
discordant
to life,
I cannot
reconcile
them
to the
naked
tree branches
that silhouette
into the
empty
sky.
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