On the other side of things

The way of poetry
 

Like telephone poles

This world passes by you.
How to pay attention
To each line out the window
And the blurring of it all
As it rattles towards the destination
Is the way of poetry.
 
 
On the other side of things
 
On the other side of things
There could be an inscription
Tendered into the hallow of a pine,
Indecipherable, unless standing
In the rings of its feet.
 
On this side of things
So much life unfurling 
From the almond of a flower.
Which makes me wonder
At the beauty of a furled thing
Still within its shell.
 
In between these things
Is the word and the novel, 
simultaneous as time and place are 
For me, who at once imagines
The raindrop and the river, 
The ocean of being which we are
Apart from and a part of.
 
At the center of things
Is where the shell falls away;
Where the raindrop and the ocean meet;
Where the hallow words resound
On the inside of a pine tree.
 
At the center of things
There is something more than happening;
More than one word becoming
An entire story; there is more
Than the life outside of things,
Or inside, or in between.
There is more-there is the silence
Of the incommunicable inscription,
The message of being:
To be. 
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