Apart from people—I love. Nothing pushing against the self. Pornography’s left hand absent. Morality’s right gone. Antiquity’s Roman columns are become unimagined. The divide itself between “I” and “am” not there at all. Adrift walking. Crackles. Stumps. Spectrum of colors, hardly close to the bumble-bee’s. Yellows. Oranges. Reds. Browns. But enough. Rot decay mild oozings of decomposed living. It is enough. Perhaps the stilly murmur of the distant sea occurs and then it goes. But that, after all, is more fabric now of being itself than trumped up literary memory. At this point. And besides he, Coleridge, was a special man. The quiet of earthly love. Crows noisy blue jays fighting in the new pines unseen but overheard. Fluffs of bird’s death on a green mossy log. Where belonging is. Where human footsteps mark the sound they leave with almost, close to their own nothing. Emptiness. Silence that isn’t silence. Noises without the chatter of human language shaking out its ink blots always going, “There! there! there!” as it happens. Like a chance to walk with God who lets me come back—unlike Enoch heard from no more the beloved—to the little world as I step over the low stone wall back into my leaf-covered yard I love a little less than this but live in.
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