Chance, Chant, Chain
The stroke and stress of what came before us
is all boast; the sacred text of a sage’s naked guilt,
a sheaf of scripture intended to trick. We roll the
moveable frame back again and again, each scene
unfolding like pasture or passage, saying chance,
chant, chain. We are roped in afresh and furthermore,
we admire confinement, to recline against one’s wall
is to rest. We recall that memory is malleable, but
overlook it to admire the approach of the unfamiliar
branded with our specific stamp of discretion.
I love you, we say. I’ve never felt this way before.