not thinking too deeply about it, i’m meeting an amphibian solar reality. writing from my truck on a t-shirt brooklyn day, sharp edge of my laptop pressed against my belly, i’m feeling into focus my opened mail, farm spa site plan, and all these vocals i’ve got to record. my collaborator prompted a feathering of my fringe—flexing my voice into unfamiliar shapes.
at which point does form integrate? lay your wobbly paths with wood. made heftier, rock steady farm tractor training—codified mystery gives itself up. when i listen to the spirit i’ve been given, i sense the certainty of you implant. deconstructing attachment, remembering i am born from story, i giggle about this kind of cling soup. writing is for the writer, but you just might get something out of it too.
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