Without concrete, how is a thing--anything, really--believable?

Borderless, genderless, colorless. Neutral, non-tonal, without smell. A feeling? A psychosis? A figment, or echo of a figment, or echo, or...

The choirs sing of him, her, it, as if the the shape of their notes, the vibration of strings, the rippling, rippling, rippling thrum of sound crashing against ceiling, against hearts, contours something, which is otherwise uncontoured.

The pilgrim stands under a smiling Franciscan prayer, the giggling child under the puppy's wet nuzzle, the lover under the spent consummate weight of lover, the triggerman under love's prosecution, verdict of guilt. A husband--let's call him Tom-- brings his wife--let's call her Sue-- wild roses, ripe with autumn. These are not the thing, but evidences of it.

This is love. Love is love.



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