If you can,
let words
small you. Let
a derangement of our language
bring you to folding
in. Let wings
furl, legs curl,
the fetal charm
take hold. If you can,
be born in this
again —
not as if you were in thrall
to that new God
made in books,
but free within loose embrace
of an older One
who dwells
between possibility
and its enactment,
that place where all
is always ready to be born
and never comes into
a defined life.
Dark Matter 
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