There is no
original water. There is no
half-water or full, adopted or step-water. Why water sticks to rock.
Why rock sits still, amid its burgeoning. She posts a photograph of
her mother's hands, folded over her lap. A wheelchair. I know you're
important to me, but I can't recall your name. How we gravitate to
the predicate, its tragic forgetting. But the subject of the sentence
is knowing. I know
that, my daughter says. Her shoulder blades are butterfly wings; they
fold. The side that folds loses. Put a coin in the slot; it becomes a
verb. The predicate is all adrenaline.
--17
June 2014
Note:
"no original": Dogen
Note:
"no original": Dogen
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