deep in Kangaroo valley

where the wind sounded so much like stravinsky, my symphonic sadness came to an end (it was always a bit drama anyway). i saw art as a kind of wildness, like how falling (in and out of) is a kind of vernacular. see this deep pool between flat rocks? how the middle glistens a blackness that is capable of bursting into flames that illuminate gravity? i know in my uncentered heart that this is not all imaginary, and the fanning of that wind often reveals paths to another foreign land where there is that love that hits me on the head and says ‘I’d sail with you anywhere, war or no war.’

in the meantime i paddled about in this strangeness so pleasurable, it could be mistaken for a pint of whiskey. a wild instantaneous fullness, no anticipation, no heroic advances, and accepted this aloneness irreparably. isn’t our need for speed simply another wish for closeness? towards a conquest of remoteness?

o space is not so bad! the sky so spatial and deep above me, the water so cool and smiling, i floated around here secretly admiring my love for you in the spring.