(Havin loved enough and lost enough,I'm no longer searching,just opening,no longer trying to make sense of painbut trying to be a soft and sturdy homein which real things can land.These are the irritationsthat rub into a pearl.So we can talk for a whilebut then we must listen,the way rocks listen to the sea.And we can churn at all that goes wrongbut then we must lay all distractionsdown and water every living seed.And yes, on nights like tonightI too feel along. But seldom do Iface it squarely enough to see that it's a doorinto the endless beraththat has no breather)