on Bright's days i like to wear Sweater, sometimes Hood, for i like to feel Wind push and pull me--filtered through Cloth. Chill affecting Skin. Wind's sound of Rush over Ears--the only whisper i know whose sound is tidal. i'd feel like a boy again, if i
could crawl completely
inside, sinch all Open's to Closed's--except one: Sleave.
where Wind would
enter and fill Sweater to the point of the word "billowed." and there i would sit--a boy at play--with Fortress. i
would watch wind
by observing Fortress' walls and begin to forget Light's still out there, forget what he looks like--on Otherside-- but then again, i am that boy now--only later--and Sweater is wearing from Age and Use--Holes have formed and Light pours in--bright--white. i see Light's beams from Dust's presence--i know his aims, his targets. some Holes are large enough to spy out.
"Day's still out there."
Breath, i hold, from Time to Time as i've forgotten Beauty--Splendor--Glory, Original--whose been known to take Breath away.



- margaret
--
ars longa. vita brevis.
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