This is my library. It often rains here.
Please, sit. I want you to know what I see
in the world.

Sit. Read.

Read about the ancient masters
in their own grassy hand
on brittle pages.

Read about the modern ghosts
those we brush past every day
we see without seeing.
    (we are too near to grok
     such magnificent beings
     as him and her)

Sit. Write.

I will read to you of suffering.
Take notes—we have many stories to tell.
Well-orchestrated pain is essential.

Write for me right now.
Something short, ten lines maybe.
Include an umbrella or an octopus.

When you are ready, read it aloud, then
hand it to me and I will read it aloud, and
we shall laugh together &
toss it in the fireplace.

Sit. Listen.

A night is only over when
there is nothing left to say.

Sound of wind. Sound of windchimes.
Sound of sound of droplets.
Sound of flag.

It is a world in which we carry
our loneliness with us,
and only when we really lose ourselves
do we find communion with others.

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