The Long Arc

The difficult thing one of many difficult things we
experience the pain the longing for simple for 
same when time spins when days pass when
we create today from the shadow of yesterday

It is the effort we put toward trying to just know
trying to see what can’t be seen, we try, we look
when we feel…we categorize and prioritize, we
pulverize it into some form of meaning…to us

The long arc of love soaring diving toward a
moment a minute gone is a flash a spark in a
sea of lights…once thought impervious to the
liquid we call living it erodes the same, the same

Why is it now different…gone…when its shadow
hasn’t left hasn’t faded still with a weight an inertia
it expands to fill the day the night the emptiness
where fullness was; the long arc touching down

Calling that instant another name another form of
recognition derides the moment with a pain unfelt
but known intimately…a whisper behind diaphanous
dreams of having…having and having still more

An unplanned history toward an unexpected past; it
can’t be anything but what it will be…the universe
cannot be simpler than any of its parts…when nothing
is an immediate contradiction

The long arc swings and doesn’t care where cuts
are made are left with bruises with no apology, she
was who she was (as was I) but all in all it is always
what it will always be; not destined but created

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