What is worth making
given all
we have not found?

The ideas that sit
on this landscape
are disruptions, one by one.
Here another claim on eternity,
there a refusal.

Nothing we make
is worth keeping.
Yet we are makers of things,
that’s our conceit.

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Understanding
is what’s there
when I’m not.
Sky sliding past.

As compulsive actors,
the challenge
worthy of our minds
is passivity.

I think
this is something

changing oneself
from mind
into matter.
A rock, into the hand,

does not grow.
It only
has divided

“[F]or while he himself spoke from the depths of long days of brooding upon his personal distress, and the image he had tried to impart had been slowly shaped and proved in the fires of passion and regret, this meant nothing to whom he was speaking, who pictured a conventional emotion, a grief that is traded on the marketplace… [T]he attempt to communicate had to be given up.”

–Albert Camus, The Plague

///

now I’m leaving town

up on the sun, pt. 3

***

up on the sun, pt. 2

***

***

up on the sun: seven days in june

***

Sugar bowl

Crab spider with fly

Prairie Smoke

Robin Egg

Blue Clematis

Hawthorn

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