3.3.25

Writing to the line within the line, trying to move through the body, until always, there is the opening where words can meet me. I was trying to meet you here. Here was the door and the ocean, and the wind passing through. In class yesterday night, I wrote down: language is also a wind instrument. I didn't notice anything on my walk today. I woke up naturally, as ordinary people do. I remembered your breath and mine and together we spoke with a wordless knowing. Let life hide her holy face. May the sense of something enlargen your life. Are there simpler words than want? Behind the veil there still wasn't anything for me to hold onto.