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Breath climbs the ladder of the spine.  Spine that stretches to the infinite.  The infinite is smaller than the eye can see.  We see everything and understand nothing.  Nothing is the state for which we long.  We long to set down our calculations and surrender to shining.  Shining like morning light as it spreads across the garden.  Garden of my heart longs to open and bloom.  Bloom in an ecstasy of the present moment.  Moment cut free of past and future.

Future is contained inside the seed.  The seed carries all the useful knowledge of history.  History is the story we tell ourselves.  I tell myself, “Be conscious of each breath that enters.”  What enters is too easily unattended.  Unintended consequences are the runes I’m left to read.  I read the bones, the stars, the map of my upturned palms, but I neglect to read my mind.  My mind endlessly twirls, a mobius strip.  Strip away the chatter of fear, and what remains?

What remaining constructs will be useful to us?  Both “use” and “us” are undergoing radical reinvention.  Re-invert the meaning.  Meaning twirled, a mobius strip, and will we finally discern our own place in the loop?  The loop of time comes to claim us again.  It’s a gain to intuit its approaching shadow.  The shadow exhales its damp breath in our dreams.  Our dreams grow more parallel with each shortened night.  Each night we secrete a pool of nectar; come morning, hummingbirds arrive to drink.

Birds don’t bother to drink from our rough language.  Our language grown so distant, tongue and heart stretched as if by force.  The forces at work are poised on the thinning glacial shelf.  The self melts into a churning sea.  See how tonight pretends to be like other nights?  Other nights I’ve waited like this, waited to see if morning would return.  Again and again we return to the shining seed.  Seed of star and bird, of shadow and ladder.  Climb the ladder of the spine, each rung another arpeggio’d breath.

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