| Likening As I reach, I am born to a word never spoken, I am swept in the lye and the stone and the sand, and tactile is made that which is formless, and clothed in the moment that I hold in my hand. My freedom, it lies in the things I have named, but more in the felt, in the raw and the pure. For we have resigned to the realm of the known the same that is silent, in touch, and is sure. To the crush of an apple, I am likening it; with the weight of the head of a baby at birth. The cut and the cradle mark the creator: light never seen underground in the earth. Today I become as the lid of the eyeless, the nerve of the dead that has wakened anew, and fine beyond measure that connective tissue, that filament weaving the me into you. written in 1981 |