baby-fists and baby-toes, a‘flailing in the dark,

shivering and rocking in that amniotic “beauty
within which all things walk and move”: inside a
dream outside of time, remembered, or not, (assembled
/ unraveled) from residues of memory.

Lose the mask you wear like a grudge: try
to remember the first face you can remember.       Your first face from the last life before it finds (its?) shape. Before a stage exists, before any watchers appear, before your own map of self and space congeals, (out there / in here), before any doors, gates, locks come between your impulse and its most graceful or, at least, spontaneous expression.  With every image still latent, on the bare edge of the visible.

That face is your full self, it’s been said.
Who else are you then, but your full self, it’s all been said before.

So begin there: where the body disappears,
and burns (in secret), and impulse
“transluminates” as action. A true and natural
ritual, but sadly, and so often,
diluted and debased.

© 2017, John Sullivan

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