love yourself they say over and over one guru then another as if right
try as you might okay as I might
this just doesn’t happen I think
myself wrong off miss-drawn
because I can’t really
it’s not love that makes this idea of theory this humanist way of being become real
yesterday I arrived at the place I’d been traveling to
for days
-days of course a metaphor for an ambiguous term of life-
a little more I could feel in this arrival that was a composite of many the same arrivals acceptance
I could stop revising myself
I could take the full weight of truth that is always amorphous and disorderly
I could take my secret deep fear of an inability to love consistently
I could realize it was never that they have always been not quite right even terribly wrong
love does not hold the same shape over time to make it hold form inhumane arriving at the place again
acceptance is a gentle swirl of snow across the windshield the first flutters of quiet stillness that carry full through the distorted phrases that never quite land on the earthen floorboards of life