Downhill
I run down a hill thinking
About the formation of words.
Boredom, I think, and bearing down,
Like someone boring a hole in
Earth, to keep me
On my awful Path
(full of awe).
.
Rendering, I think, panting and
Not thinking in such clear ways.
“To be made” and “to render me”.
I think: is something made
Out of completely nothing.
And*: something rendered*
Has already been there, as
Pixels on a screen, like “she
Renders me happy.”
Up the hill I thought:
That which renders me mad,
Pushes me.
And now I am falling and words
Are coming freely.
So finally there is the French phrase,
I miss you and you are
Missing from me.
And the thought comes to me
That I have heard from others.
We give ourselves to others.
I am so happy. I cannot wait
To assemble my life,
Hole at a time. To give myself
Away freely to everyone
So that when I am gone
I will be missing from so many
People.
To be something so beautiful
And large and meaningful,
I will become nothing.
And give everything.
Like a necklace stolen,
Given to me by someone who loved me
Is always around my neck.