It was arranged this way, it was in place when I got here. Then I show up, essentially a part of it. Not part of its make-up, its conception. More a part of how it meets the world. The two of us meet and, without speaking, it's as if something is said.
No utterance, no whole. But holy still. No words, no. Conversation silently. Me to you, you to me and then me and then. It's always about the me in here. No words but we aren't hungry anymore. We no longer feel the need to see to believe, hear to dream. Good night. No, good. Just good.
I don't need to eat, but will find something else to make me whole. The middle, right, the middle. The meeting, any place. You to me, bird to tree. It hums and shakes its wings, its heavily rain-drenched leaves. The bird sits and sings. The bird sits and sings.
Goodness, how arranged. The light plus the pavement wet and fine. I trusted you once, when you said something. You said, vast emptiness. You said, leaf on your sleeve. Notice, don't believe. I trust you now and then, the clouds. Coming at me. Me to you, you to mountain top. Arranged and no head.
At the end of the day, at the end of the day. We are here, we are not theory. We are around and circles like the dew. Once was rain now is when I kissed the petal. When I saw the rose and stuffy nose. I chopped the wood and not a single splinter. I hiked the trail and mountain top, foggy few.
Leaves of sleeves, leaf on, just leave me. Both here first, both arranged and born. I didn't come to make you, so leave the making, leave it left. I made myself a house made out of tree branches. I lived in it. The wood was there and fine but branches let me see. Wraparound porch of pine.