What We Elide with Et Cetera

A star has fallen into the grass, its whispered pleas rising as I walk past. What do we refuse to notice? Baby robins. Leftover pizza. Going back to Louis Kauffman's work, finding it hard to read and so moving on, secretly scared I'm making a mistake. The blue light in you, the blue light in me. Baby foxes at the dump. Strawberries appear, as if the cosmos were bound to order, as if all that is asked of us is the willingness to be forgiven, i.e., just give attention and generally let be. Setting up an oil change for the battered Subaru and hours later wondering when and how I got so bad at phone conversations, or is it about scheduling, or is it just a bad day in the middle of a challenging month? In a dream writing poetry naked. So much of what we elide with et cetera yearns to be expressed. Can a dance be amended? Well past midnight I wander around outside, watching fireflies in the maple trees and down in the horse pasture, and listen to the river quietly praying for me in moisty dark. I will not be your hippie priest! Yet on the other hand, if there were more than this I would refuse it, happily, for this - this this - is sufficient, it really is.