I heard the Voice

say this morning, as I sat

on my bike atop a bridge

overlooking this mountain-range-surrounded valley:

When you try to pinpoint the wave

you find a particle

when you try to analyze your inventory of choices

you will discover you have too few or none at all

when you attempt to comprehend

or express

some ultimate grounding

the Unmoved-mover

a universal foundation

you will find yourself unable to catch up with it

it will fall out

right under your feet.

It is the unique
behavior of humans
to
create
and posit somewhere
a reason for our actions
or our thoughts
or feelings
in order
to find
one
when
we
believe we
need it.

By lack

of a

singular

vessel;

in virtue of

the collapse and

expansion

of

influences,

of conversion;

the air does not

fill my lungs

the words fall

not from my mouth

but

supplement,

transmogrify,

the expanse.

Translation

is migration;

there

are not

as many

words for

snow

as there are

flakes

that fall in

the arctic

sky.

There comes the moment:

you are somewhere you've never been before

or maybe you've been there a hundred times before

you try something you never tried before

or maybe compared to every time you've tried it

you do something

some odd little thing

different

your feet become roots in the ground

your hand quivers

your upper body jolts

or a bizarre taste spreads

throughout the recesses of your mouth

the depth envelopes you

it takes you in and raises you

years of life in just a

moment

you can see within that glimpse

of a glitch

that

one moment

you can see

even with your eyes closed.

女子の涙には

教師の僕が

対等にならせちゃって。