To have something outside of

the self,

to divert and occupy

one’s stinging gaze,

let it dance.

‍

My brother rock climbs; 

a friend plays keyboard. 

I read

and write,

following the unfolding of

an idea,

feeling how it moves.

‍

Want to say:

This stretching,

this search for fit,

is the search for God.

‍

Modesty prevents me.

‍

That is too violent,

too philosophical.

It dams the river

with foreknowledge

of it’s dissipation.

‍

Instead, say:

I want to feel the 

real texture

of my object,

pass beyond this border,

insinuate myself into the 

scheme of things.

‍