It’s no secret
I’m little more
than the congress
of my thoughts
the body mostly
bewilders or else
carries on in
its ambient ways
god has yet to
intrude, the sun
and dirt feel much
closer, as do
friends and family
who are likewise
astounding in their
goodness, while often
there is no real task
at hand, one’s fingers
lightly sweeping
the dingy surface
of the keys, eyes
trained inward
as a thing incapable
of so many things
but pleased within
thought, the inner
life being the only
life according
to Noel, a quiet light
ordering shadows
about the deck
of a caravel, unraveling
lines to make some
headway through
the debris of a vast
and impenetrable
sea, it’s no secret
the heart continues
despite blindness
just as our eyes
only see a fraction
of what the mind
determines, perhaps
led by what people
call the soul, an idea
I revile, feeling
the center of one
to be forever
radiating outward
to tangle and be
wove, which brings
one back to the heart
which has always
seemed an apt if
pleasantly hilarious
metaphor to me
misshapen, muscular
tough as one’s fist
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