i The reaching, the reaching the always reaching
The line in chalk on the black slate.
ii The hand drawn folded over the eyes
The weep, the gasp, the shaking
The shedding of burdens
of the exhaustion of the reaching
of the maybe, the not-yet, the could-be
iii The vine, the branch,
the fruit imprisoned by the quantum wind
The linkages and refusals
of ions, resonances, pauses, and hesitancies
iv The wind erodes the sand.
The sand erodes the wind.
v You are not what I thought you would be
You have arrived, but have I departed?
vi Am I your trapeze
your well-worn bar
your stave against gravity
as you inhabit your grasping and
--blessed relief!-- your letting go?
vii Or shall I be your orange
with a slice peeled half off
The yearning of the rind for the rusty blade
That opens a wound
That pushes forth a stem
That erupts a tree
That drives the black sky to dangle insolently, relentlessly
beyond my reaching
viii Have I found you at last?
And is my wound for healing?
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