Stillness and Hunger

The river flowing under banks of ice, silent and dark, without intent. Fionnghuala's art gone beyond what is familiar, what is childish ending in an angel the cosmos invites her to wrestle with all the long night. Forgive me, child, I did not know the way out of Eden, I gave up too early, I built a mansion where a cottage would've done. Nothing real can be threatened, nothing unreal exists. Is that it? Is that the poem? Currents of which I am merely an eddy, a spiral braid of the cosmos briefly naming itself? Birth is always a celebration, death only sometimes, why, because there is only one mother. A class of being in which non-being does not factor. Sometimes driving west I become a pine tree and realize how mistaken I have been about stillness and hunger. Ease with language - must this too be released. Kate suggest a trip to India, a walk up Arunachala, I tell her I'll run it by the telepathic effluorescent octopus the mushrooms showed me in lieu of God. When in therapy you no longer need to discuss your father, that's when. Not happy so much as unanchored, how else do we recall the flow we both long for and are. Is it possible I am mistaken about this capability to name literally everything? In the morning a crow cries and decades later the answer is given. This this, amongst other things.