you must go to the edge of all desire,
of your desire, to the moment when it has begun
to thin, to the place where yearning has already
been filtered through poetry, where the ache
and the idyll have been compacted,
layered through the sedimentation of your living.
it is the place to which you always return,
holding and releasing the grip of attention,
of reception, as the lone nights invite you again
into the hospitality of silence. showers
have broken through the skies of summer.
prints and paintings line the walls of booths.
inks, oils, thread, the monitors crackling.
there finds the healing that comes through
distance. the flowers have been arranged
in a display. their petals are yellow and
orange. looser, emptier days are beckoning.
joy comes at its appointed times.