So Good, All of You
—Like the dirt around me, we love you. McBride/Thikbot
You always remind me, plurally, of music. I hear. However. Cannot express. And of. A. Beautiful sadness. Some odd error of dusk. That is. The same. To me. Like. An assistant. Of Sorts. A wide net. Made. From informative links. To get lost. Into. The hiddeness. Of it. Of that width. And. That widening and. To make it. Become. Lost. In. Fact. So. It’s found. More fully. In feeling. Do you feel me? It is the only way. You can. We are here. In the field.
To aid. And, so…
Speak to me. My many. And thoughts. Going. Like boats on a nearby. Stream. Or on a Sunday. Of the senses. And. The sense of being. Gathered in. Or going along. Those same lines. Yet. Differently. It might not be. What I wrote before. Although. Somehow. It remains. Still. As the way. We can ask. Where’ve the boats gone? And whether we notice or not. We’ll always answer. With our eyes.
That is how we know. To fix it. To a place.
Over there. For instance. Is much. Of what follows. And. After that. Drifting. Like almost. Almost sleep. Or comfort. The which is similar. Or, even, the same. It is. Scarcely sad. The little togetherness. As sorrow. Is flowing. Away. The night is ever. Young. Ships moving through.
An ocean. Is like a stream.
And so you have it. When you look.
A field. By a stream. By the ocean. By twilight. By that self we swear by. Piles. Of dust.
Singing. Through. Their. Own. Conditions. And. Memories. That. We are also. Assisting. Into order. And. Illumining. A kind. Paradise. Of. Unknown. Words. Reflecting. Themselves. Into everything. Yet. Particularly. Into Feeling. We somehow. Always. Get there. Quietly. Because.
What we wanted. Has been. Conducted. Without a need to speak.