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the muscular arms of paradise

November 23, 2016

the catch in the throat of the strong
in the face of sweetness,
that unlocking of memory
the return to the real moments
when the ache is gone, so briefly

strange for it to happen on a Monday,
but on reflection it is as likely as
rain or an electricity bill or a
fly in an almost empty glass of wine

we think of karma when we feel we are
being rewarded or punished,
not when lolling in ennui or sloth

it doesn’t intuitively feel linked
to inspiration or its lack,
to foresight or its lack,
to passion or its lack

such things are tidal,
even paradise must have tides,
aches and sloth,
its muscular arms must tire,
else one might indeed forget
what paradise is for: an understanding

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