A moment in the life of a person who is not very young or who is somewhat young but for other reasons has reached that point of understanding and not confusing multiple forms of pain.
In true religion it is not the person but the moment that speaks. It speaks with the authority of the one who is not the actor, who did not particularly want the things that came to happen:
We live on a thing that orbits,
Draws endless rings and disks,
Not growing nearer, not going elsewhere,
And not remaining still.
Every form on this thing draws a trail,
A trace of its life in an element not its own.
And when we are counting them,
For this is our work: accounting for form,
We may come to see the trailing things that were never counted,
As beings all of their own.
Perhaps they are the real things even–
Is there not a law that says it? The realest is what is left out.
So we recover and learn to count again.
This is called: repair.
We may wonder if the trail too leaves a trail behind
Not a big obvious thing living all by itself,
A shiver maybe,
An adverb of an adverb.
The hum of the nerves as they soak in a shape
That could disappear and does not.
And what if this humming shiver is not just a sound, but a language
Which decoded someday will lead us down
To a dark new universe
Expanding nervously between our skins.
In the first translations all words come out as “yes.”
Reality streams in and erects
A monument to every whisper.
It takes so much time to learn to tell time,
To find that “yes” that separates
The feeling of what is from the weight of what could be.
Our speaker understands all this has been said before
By its predecessor, another moment.
This is called: premonition.
The moment stops speaking but does not finish.
It cannot tell when its time is up.
