Thursday, December 21, 2006

It was some combination of her voice, her face, her thin gray cotton leggings, a glance across the greenish haze, that kiss of every breath at once. A dream within a dream so strange but carefully precise, so perfect. So lost within myself but lucid with the suspense of her lips and the soft electric glow of her small hands. She touches me and I remind myself that the dream is real because it is persistent. It becomes clear to me that compassion is the only rational direction in this noetic loop, where life becomes an image of itself an infinitude of times over.

Carolyn

And talking about what God looked like to ourselves, how She must be beautiful but without face or name but human and familiar. And how we saw Her in the womb and even now in shapeless flesh of Christmas tree and windowing. Church-born entryways enshadowed by the walk or dreamt and surely more dreamt than memorized of that emblazened silhouette we saw carved out and stoned.