1,254 Readings


The earth has a curving structure which permits
the roots of the jacaranda to sprout and blossom
as a shrub we would say holds angular relation to its soil
if we could hold the vantage of the horizon, say,
or of one in space who looks back at the planet
with sadness because the geometrical properties
of bodies in relation to one another are more exact,
say, or more exacting, or more tender and loving,
in the definition of their terms than the terms a body
uses to establish, then articulate, then defend
its difference from other bodies, the face of the dying
man from the jet plane that carried his son
to a distant country to speak to him once more
before he died, the cresting, falling, flattening
gush of water across a frozen field from the white
fox caught by the foot near the winter-stripped brambles,
the dormant rose from the lapel of the senator’s son,
a woman’s name from her being when a man
destroys her body and leaves it to rot in a field,
and look, for every market a farm, say, for every
hour a proper boredom, for every ambiguity
an exacting exploitation, and there’s no leaving
to stay, no changing the shape of difference,
the planet’s curving structure permits the illusion
of horizon, permits perspective from which 
we can’t depart, but like the soil which can be
nothing but soil, yet produces the jacaranda,
the sweet potato, the field of poppies, one can emerge
as difference from oneself, let’s call that love,
and in this matter love, which none define
beyond perspective, resembles forgiveness, say – 
it’s total, or not at all. You love difference
or you don’t. You forgive yourself in others or
you don’t. And if you do, I love you. 
And if you don’t, I love you. The difference
in our blood is full in our different bodies
and full in the soil that binds me to
this blood, this body, this planet.
Posted 01/21/15
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