Heavy. Invisible.
What could we want
that could ever satisfy?
Love? Sex? Wealth?
Exceptional health?
Even vague longings
lose their flavor, fade.
Having is nothing,
a subtraction, even.
While life is the long
tangling of ourselves
With what is not
ourselves, but which
is different, new, and
therefore, pleasing
until it is pressed so
closely to our chest
that it is forgotten,
invisible, and lost.
Life is our own slow
sticky accumulation.
And wisdom is an
impossible unraveling.
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