How To Love

I have said to people
of our small town
It is a knowing place
it is aware of itself.

History is a blanket
thrown over a rock
-garden with boulder
shapes ill-described.

On weekends of a film
-shoot, a photo competition,
this knowing charms
Cloud deliver Snow.

The stars—& all their wavelengths
are threads between embroideries;
‘Love’ is a survival sheet,
reflective, that it catches heat.

Your own. This knowing, see
it in all events
which must repeat,
wet Grey and purple Black

dissolve and blue reveals
the day on mountains
lowered glowing white
across the ocean basin

timed perfectly for viewing
from the Lookout or the shore.
How to Love? Begin
with the newborn,

or if you haven’t got one
handy, that book
called, ‘optic-mystically’
‘His [sic] Word’. Take

in the beginning, the first
letter. Only. Not the word,
and not the sentence:
First letter only.
There is who is responsible.

 

 

 

 

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