I didn’t feel like writing last
week as I had a nasty cough. Instead I meditated on the origins of dis-ease.
Tectonic plates—
slow shifts in time; a
languid dance of
perceived stillness. A quiet
waltz to death.
Molten rivers flow beneath these monoliths.
Blood of the earth, sluggish and inert,
their torpid rhythms far below.
An aeon of travelling so small a distance.
Today, however, the tempo changes:
pressure mounts and fissures crack open.
What sparks this momentum?
My chest burns, grows hot
with need. Expression kindles:
Why love? What use this
fallible, overwrought; less than perfect
love that sputters and spurts through the cracks:
see me; see me!
Not easy this love.
I don’t want to see it, don’t want to feel it.
Love hurts and betrays; it cannot be trusted. And it burns
like the virus that lies in my chest; hot coals of fire
a miasma of emotions forcing me to look, to experience.
To move bedrock.
To trust.
To love.
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