Aeon

for Jess

The wonder is
missing a voice

you've never
heard. Words

come shrouded in
emotion, and possess

the tone of ear
and tongue

combined, for
reception is

a mutual thing,
despite the light

from any distant
star might not be

seen for
10,000 years:

All that matters
is comingling.

Language is far
older than are

we, who believe
we speak it

when in fact
it speaks us

and holds us to
our place

as gracefully as
sinew, nerve

and bone.
Our own triadic

and mortal dance
is made of life,

labor, language
and that which

these three
compose: Love,

the longest lasting
rose that bursts

from the spine
at either end,

and whose silent
E opens lips,

mouth, throat
and the entire

body from one
nature to the next:

ROSE : EROS
or, true attention

to whatever
and sometimes someone.

The Real does not
close. To admit

the possibility of
creating an image of

beauty does not,
in the act, create

the image, but is
itself, creative beauty

gone active, creating
an image of itself

in the context of
having made this

possible. For what is
"not possible?"

What happens
when everything

takes place: Nothing
either contingent

or necessary?
Is this not pure

love: The freedom
to make? Ancient

Egyptians kept adding
further ideas to

old ones without any
concern for integration

and change. Operative
language is

constitutive rather than
expressive: One

in which a self can build
a world in which to

discover a Self: More
stuff. Play

produces in kosmos
the astonishment

that is the very source
of the world in which

we produce both
it, and ourselves:

These winged
and restless messengers,

this fragmentary angelology:
Although we can

never know
where we're going

we must always be
somewhere on our way.


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