Irresistible Contentment

"I am talking my way back to the poem's turn and where it might lie outside my skirted body, a corded place where bluish sky paints my attention, and empties itself into a golden silence- without talk or sound. Phrases now feel perversely sentient and yet devilishly wrong. Every night I talk with the hope that speech itself will burn me its one true alphabet."

"Every night I talk with the hope that speech itself will burn me its one true alphabet. Nevertheless, morning's magic always looks opaque because a stronger feeling replaced the lesser one, and the rightness must reach the poem's hearted center so that I am led to what might be a plateau of nested changes, something irresistible, those letters of gold, maybe anew."

I talk my way back to the poem's turn, which may lie outside the skirted body in a corded place where bluish sky paints attention and empties into a golden silence without talk or sound. Phrases feel perversely sentient and yet devilishly wrong. Every night I speak hoping that speech itself will burn me its one true alphabet. Morning's magic looks opaque because a stronger feeling replaces the lesser one. Rightness must reach the poem's hearted center and lead toward a plateau of nested changes. Those changes feel irresistible, like letters of gold, promising renewal.

Read at The Atlantic