Long ago you spoke of how we walked
along this road, somewhere in the country
talking of books, huddled in quiet surroundings
without any need for eyes on depth, nor
any deed misplaced: no errors stayed if they
even took place where we tread a measured pace
Listening I thought, always listening to the sky
for instance talking above us without intrusion
we carried it on our backs until it could not
be told where the presence arose: we
sheltered in the spaces between words, memory
made from the path unfolding from our steps
I like to think in that dimension we still move
there; shorn of memory, and absent bitterness,
the ache of circumstances flea-biting at our necks,
not ghost-like those of whom I spoke, but these
times conquered: altered by an alchemy we cannot
pretend to understand but rise to meet again
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SHADOW BOXING THE INFINITE
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