[poem, sort of, I suppose]

[kaberett]

So much is circumstance and happenstance. I'm stuck on trying to convey my sense of wonder at the fact we've made a ritual of that phrase, when what we are boils down to stellar waste suspended temporarily in an astonishing coherency of water (or, smaller still, of space). And yet: we pay a flippant formulaic lip service to chaos; we take comfort from our small familiarity with mundane chance, from our ability to render down the world to form a habit. But that requires practice lest we twist and catch and tear, like clothing on an unexpected nail: so poetry's a habit, and so's love, in that I'll wear them both and through neglect forget how not to stumble on their edges, how not to trip on my own flighty cleverness, how to respect the work required to wholehearted and carelessly believe that I'm alive, in just the way that I forget to breathe and yet keep breathing. Still, it seems that when I slip I stop or stall into this strange intensely awkward vulnerable hope I'd not at all intended to display; yet here I am, and here perhaps I'll learn to find my balance and, having found it, find that I can't stay.

Comments

[jjhunter]

Habit to inhabit, to do and to wear. I really like

stellar waste suspended temporarily in an astonishing coherency of water (or, smaller still, of space)

though waste vs. seed seem a matter of perspective.

Thank you for sharing this.