A pulse, an inkling. Numinous wellings.
Filament that seems to emerge inborn.
And like the mind waking in the skin
of its own thoughts, all illumined and still,
you follow that lit trail and allow yourself
to leave the spool of your body clock
ticking behind. And in the space that fills
with more air than light you traipse
what appear to be the backwoods
of an unremembered wilderness,
journeying more out of hope than quest
for mere trace, prints in long-gone ground.
Though it takes something more or less
like groundwork for the tracks to reappear
in the vein and slipstream of a path
made unfamiliar to you now. Still,
you forage the pith and purblind chamber,
the heart hauled bloodlines of inherent bone.
And out of the marrowing absence comes
an undertow, tinctured in the weight,
a kind of nothingness that’s been threading
away in the silt and sinew of some buried truth,
like the pause before the breathless becoming
of a word that draws on its implicit shape.
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