We try to make space
for breathing.
And there is
this cold compassion
that seeks the point of tension,
thin cells on a slide
beneath a lens,
light shining through
this transparency
we never see.

We try to make shapes
of ourselves
and wonder
what words we are spelling.
if it is still possible —
acquiring a new language.

We look for stillness,
and stand outside the glass,
attempting to acknowledge
a need for this detachment.
Count each day,
and at some point realize,
we still feel the moon
coming in behind the clouds.

And no matter how far
outward or inward
we step into the temple —
upon each emergence,
our eyes fall
like blue wings
upon this point,
upon this horizon,
and we know
what waits,
what lives there.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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