My Clarity

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The process: the chipped
paint-frayed window screens, the wasp nests of last year
that don’t have a purpose, the tufts of old-man-gray
dusting the yard; all and more toll a passing.
It attracts a glassy eye.
Rare clarity has the
opposite effect of a circling drain, putting back and
into commission precedent things, ones that still live and ones to come, only because they’re given life and infuse an idea.
Consider the words:
memories follow like shadows painted on a page, never completely erased even when
the bone-house is gone. Not quite a Grecian urn—
more an unfrozen scattering: unbeautiful, untrue
mirror-flashes from the smallest of all hours.
But no museum can hold these leavings. Only a mind-sized universe can.

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