[14 June 2019]
He moves
and I feel him move,
running,
chasing,
gracing,
panting,
gasping,
grasping an always and indelibly almost-mine –
the he in me and the I in him,
where all other things being equal
(yet altogether new and all the better for it),
and I move;
in line
I will be moving,
moving back,
going back,
going in;
and somehow, almost on tip-toe,
we reach a sort of sacred syllogism,
a holy homeostasis,
(reaching beyond itself yet signifying something of its own nature)
writing the same words,
singing the same song,
echoed by voice and voice and voice
and voice, finding our place,
a l’alta fantasia qui mancò possa;
ma già volgeva il mio
disio e ‘l velle,
sì come rota ch’igualmente è mossa,
l’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle.
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