to be
her
to myself







.








I decided to stop trying to be a particular kind of her
And
there are thousands of hers





.






Remembering who you are vis a vis remembering who you love
loved
and how
you loved
them.






.






passion and persistence.







.







by faith
not by fright.







.







within the form
.
she had taken







.






Lord, we good stuff.






.






who she was







.








.
chills to my soul, but better than I was
.






.







the inner dispatch






.







the boundaries, the demarcations, the question quarks







.
the moral hearsay. any moral season.
.






.







nothing real. something called art






.






the mommas and the poppers







.






All wisdom aside, all wisdom inside, fun must be had, songs must be sung.
begun.






.






and the twain shall meet






.






and any kind of beloved thing






.





everything and everyone I left jangling






.






everythang cain't be quaint






.






regrow yourself from the wild






.







And no context, whatsoever






.







And surely arranging photographs is a poetry







.







the eyes adjust






.






And other extrapolations. Recall/ations.







.







The mood is an undermood brightening







.







And of multiple mind






.







Wild fired. Brush her fire. Come rain. Come suns, sands. Come, ire.







.







Begin again: begin again: begin again begin







.






This feeling is the making of story







.







gather yourself some loving





.







geography and more questions about place







.







Knucked, having once bucked.






.







she was buck proof & all






.







one chain of aught

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