all these things matter everywhere, from the sound of your fist slapping the pavement to her mouth opening laughter or weeping.
all these come down like spent ballons exhausted, world weary, liitle more than withered skins succumbing to the weight of it, of them, of you, of me. drifting.
i find no comfort in rest, find no comfort in silence, find no comfort in the swelling urge to repeat myself, over and over, outward, to matter. to make all this matter, the knuckle of my finger, the hem of your skirt.
but then the delicacy of how she holds things, between thumb and finger.
and then there is that, and then there is her. the immensity of her, the nowness of it, her all the time, never yielding, never interrupted, never complacent. so there, in the thick of it, becoming all of it, devouring it, an angel to all things, an angel of all things, blinding light wiping out.
all things between her thumb and finger, what a grasp that would be.