Wrong solitude vinegars the soul, right solitude oils it. How fragile we are, between the few good moments. Coming and going unfinished, puzzled by fate, like the half-carved relief of a fallen donkey, above a church door in Finland.
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Let Them Not Say
Let them not say: we did not see it.
Let them not say: we did not hear it.
Let them not say: they did not taste it.
We ate, we trembled.
Let them not say: it was not spoken, not written.
we witnessed with voices and hands.
Let them not say: they did nothing.
We did not-enough.
Let them say, as they must say something:
A kerosene beauty.
Let them say we warmed ourselves by it,
read by its light, praised,
and it burned.