FOR GERRI These lines jump from the tips of my stiff fingers to explore the circled universe of memory. They follow the outlines of distant mountains, the edges of leaves in the sunlight, the jagged fractures of crystalline thought. They snap to the vague silhouette of the horizon as it recedes from your grasp. They follow the troubled routes of angels who dispense wispy messages of hope to the afflicted, appearing in the evening sky as luminous vapour trails dispersing gradually like clouds of spent desire. At daybreak these nebulous lines gather again to illuminate the edge of a coastline that grows longer as you measure it. They are the weft of history flying through the warp of time as every living thing renews itself in the next generation. These threads are straws in the biblical mortar, grass in the swallows' nest under the eaves, mossy paths that lead from here to then, thin precarious wires strung through the forest between now and there. And when this circuitry is complete, when each point on the grid is joined to its corresponding opposite number, when the last ones and zeroes have fallen into place, and the unobtrusive hum of background radiation moves into prominence as a slow symphony of cosmic bliss, these tangles of intent will resolve quietly into simple links of love. And on that designated night when the north wind moans, and a gnarled cedar branch rubs against the thin pane of your bedroom window, these lines will touch the delicate skin of your moist palm.
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