Eric Angelo Bessel
Visitation
Looking up from underneath, there is a watery peace. A settling as the light sifts downward, refracting the sights above, now wavering into pieces of the world as it was. An accordion of a sigh releasing its weight forever. Little snow globes of living. A tin soldier army marches towards us from an unknown distance. Someday their armory will glint in the sun upon the hill, but it is not today. And the expanse is staged. Hands arbitrarily moving about in space. To grasp, to reach for atoms nodding, agreeing to be solidity. To suspend the vibration of being. A nostalgia just out of reach. Wrapped with blankets in the other room, salt lamp glowing, a little less red. To think we could ever look back on these times with such favor. A kindness, bending nearer.
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