So. You move into the night,
A day where light comes from other places burning small,
An oil lamp you hold up to peer there, behind or there,
Beneath, wherever it is, the thing you're afraid of,
The thing you're looking for,
Until you let the lamp burn out. And stop looking.
And feel, holding yourself, still, a feeling that undoes fear.
That's when you hear it,
A talking breeze -each place it moves through a note,
A pause, a flat key, a major chord, an x squared, n and n again,
A different word, a different note, a something changed.
Then a distant murmur,
A dry chill, a green scent of mud and growing - things mix and separate and mix again like plants and ferns and insects and mammals and birds in a rainforest, bubbling forth: "That's life," (ya' know.?)
Something else finds you then,
Something that's been trying to bring its small burning out, out where it brings day, peering behind
And beneath, finding.
Like jumping jacks or a warm up,
A warming up before slicing away,
Our stories and our stories - n-numbered with N-narratives and N<n
Intertwined a little,
Entangled a little,
Giving in to that popular illusion that behavior is behavior and you are you and not, instead,
Merely the sticky expressions and expression in this time,
Of systems of integrated information integrated - no, recurred,
Only a little more than an inference,
A prediction.
A lamp burning small, convinced of the night,
Containing the day.
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