A way of going out which brings
return—let it be this moment’s
sinuous sign and fleeting motion
that charms and churns the unseen,
letting it come into view and speak
some of the names long-lost even.
Think of such one moment that rolls
and curves time itself to a line that cuts,
to a point that, holding all, stays this rush,
to a point of sheer beholding and ingress
where the soul draws her deepest breath.
But isn’t any moment at its heart—only if
there is one such heart—and its attendance
and its wrap—ever so—such one divine gate?
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