shell(eyes)

shellshucked1

 

 

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oval shapes

ups wells

affixed into

t h in   a i r

 

that familiar gaping feeling

(the one we were borne with)

dampens every crevasse

for ever (giving berth)

 

wet seeps into dry

wearing a way at the edges

pressing oneself against itself

weeps intuit

 

( m u m   i s   cr y in g )

 

forwards   r e c ed e s

 

falling still

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Great emptiness as

simple as that went

So straight before-

 

had not been able

then not being idle

went absent away

 

Now faith is not what we

hereafter have we have a

world resting on nothing

 

Rest was never more than

abstract since it is empty

reality we cannot escape

 

from “Souls of the Labadie Tract” by Susan Howe