The Return, or Dreaming Back
In the fig or the “hermetically sealed” half oranges the young artist stuffs into a burlap bag, I see my little lost organ everywhere. I want to forgive it. The way it demanded soul-participation in my life. Its over-taking, as often the mad do. As you did. Ending here, in this studio above the bridge. We are in a dark time. We can feel it. We cannot meet in the house we used to share. I cannot know you as once I knew you. Master and slave. Mother and Child. We have exhausted all manner of kin. Soon after they were married, Yeats’ wife began to talk in a trance, channeling the crabby old root-men of the dead. They said our pasts will rewind like film on a spool until our ties to the passionate body thin. A light snow falls. It falls into the river. A weighting of the sand on either side. Be gone, my disease. To your own tough luck. Only then can we be spirit and not be called more simply dead. Only then can we rightly be born again.
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