Epoch, a Division of Time Carol Matos
What was doesn’t work. My longing has closed, not dead in its track but like a fusion of gender or the stuff stars shed in space. Hegel declared every idea contains its opposite— that life is wondrous yet we smell the sulphur preserved deep within earth’s crust. Not to get stuck I move forth drawn to undigested fragments not speeding past pool halls on the back of a bike but on my pen: “our greatest right is to choose how we think.” My breath lands on a child a tiny prophet proclaiming “start” so I wander into an ancient atmosphere rendered speechless with generational tugging with pulsing solar waves with this child running to me. It’s something fierce this striving late in life to become an image of yourself with more thirst.
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