Moving through, we’re finding less.
All the words and commitments, all the affections and detachments
keep rumbling, spurring, building, verging until
an event is born on the face of a star
or the deep
or before our feet
and we step on it because we cannot bear it
or we drown
or we’re blinded by it.

It might’ve been an idea or a relation or a work.

It might have been, maybe.

Maybe masks for all, until we can’t any longer.

True, our dimensions have been expanded by ancient and beautiful texts
sent and given, loved and kept, dangerous and rich
but now we find we’re too big for company.

And we feel ashamed for our gluttony.

Until we find each other around a table again
and a communion feast begins.

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