Truth
I once thought language
could hold Truth like
stone holds moss,
but I found Truth moves—
like roots around the boulders,
like earthworms tunnelling light
into the breathless earth.
I once named it abandonment,
named it addiction, called it exile—
until it named me.
Unfolding in my palm:
a fractal of a blade of grass.
Intimate. Presence. My presence.
Once, I danced whole,
then seeing, held myself back—
a body adrift,
an unheard melody stung.
My absence. Gravity unfelt. Sinking.
Truth: if I could name it a fall—
I was silenced at the hip.

I once thought of time—
a slow uncoiling of loops,
or a straightforward, quiet hunger—
gnawing in unreachable places.
A hungry line near a street cart,
a silent thief—never showing its face,
stealing faces.
Now. It moves with me / foreshadows my steps.
 

Truth— / time thrusts and leaves, moment to moment.
Trampoline: the bounce, the break, the weight, the letting go—
curves, guides gravity, traps it till no language is left.
At others, it eases into blooms where I do not seek it.
We are dancing around the hips of the world.
Silenced. Beyond doubt. Truth—
Just outside the tangle
of moss—green, grey, and gold—
heads wrap the sunlight,
bend fire to their ancient will,
caress the cold, hard weathering stone.
Murmur life back / breath untangles,
reflected in a soft, rainbow gaze.
Rising Ganymede and Europa—
elemental, fundamental—
See the landscapes untethered to the eye.
Whole, broken, seamless—Truth—
In suspended animation, a boy becomes a man,
a woman worries about mango flowers

​

melting in the rain—lost to cycles of time—
the moss, the mountains, the man, the boy, the woman,
the worry—and the Truth—reduced to a wrinkle in time!
We are dancing in the rain.
Truth thrusts itself and leaves—
We are broken at the hip.
We are dancing in the unbidden rain.
Truth—