Keep me

from turning into a particle of disbelief, so many of them, each one a universe where things pretend to be what they are only to spite themselves: milk in the jug never sweet, the cream always on the verge of curdling; a downspout refusing anything that might resemble water. Oh how miserable to maintain such a charade, the stream only doubling back on itself because it must disprove what some philosopher said about not being able to step in the same current twice. Keep me from the old shell game of anxiety, guessing which tin holds the crystal paperweight and which the red bean we will boil for supper. Instead, keep me in love with what’s unafraid to open: daisy heads struck dumb by cold, those few frail buds whose ears are tuned like mine to some voice alluringly out of season.


In response to Via Negativa: Delusions of an erasure poet....

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