the most beautiful thing i’ve read this morning:

by sophie

                    Glory On
 
So there’s a rustling in the grass that is not what
rustles from within the fir trees–unadorned, trans-
fixed, aromatic–so what. Show me a longing
that’s got no history to it, that steep glide into
what it meant once, to have glided steeply, and I’ll
show you a belief that’s touchable: go ahead,
touch it; try to…. Brokenness, you do surprise me–
here I could have sworn I’d lost my taste for you, 
you being an accident like all the others that, one 
by one, constellate, first becoming a life, and then
as if the only one, as if no other were possible. Since
when does that make a world? Whose business 
but mine is it if now, when I grieve, I grieve 
this way: crown in hand, little flowers of gold? 

 

———— Carl Phillips, from Double Shadow

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