an aural playground where all is not joyous but there is no absence of joy since the spirit is lifted up by creation/ &// the telling of stories that lead (lleedd, leered) to other thoughts, the artist’s spirit sitting in silence and HER voice and OUR playing

the deep incomprehensibility of being a son is simply something sung of same-thing Sun
slyly something sung
white-red withered until its won
another breathless dawn //,–the light effervescent and diminished becasue we quit forgiveness

i’m not eternal (entrant, external) blonde
it’s just a feeling i tried on
wish i were a son, a sun, a sow

this seed is --------------
in me all that chars is repeated:
the combustable, combusted
as my love feeds on your love, oh sweet,
and what consumes, in consuming,
assumes that as long as you live
my feet will mark pathways to yours
leaving me still

with all complexities unanswered
in your howls, sobs
in your wisdom, compassion
in my hesitance, forgotten
by the light of lights
–all possible, yet sparse,
holy markings in the living
of ‘lovingkindness'