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<< Letters from the Unsuspecting
Letters from the Unsuspecting

Gasp, that finally I should need to touch some other material to ground myself and to begin to forget about you, to lose you from my fingertips and from the top of my skull. Oh you of the wholly artless, guileless charm, whose slow genuine questions, whose utterances and whose apparently entirely unplugged and low voltage, oh you of the steady gaze and of all that is or has been desperate or desperately re-assembled. And which may still turn out to be necessary, involved or sacred.

There are things I would like to have already become at least partially familiar with - and this in itself strikes me as rather circuitous. It is this sense of being constrained that is the sole residue of having dreamt of strange objects laden with difficulties.

What strikes me now is merely the persistence of these claims on the psyche; there are books that I miss here because in them are found phrases or paragraphs or whole chapters that I am recalling in hazy manner to tell you, there are things which at the same time might prove far less fruitful than these silenced verses to you. Oh, that such lovely words can go entirely quietly and unnoticed, described at this moment by such a pointed desire for these hands to fold something as lovely as you, to anticipate and release from the holding of what has been craved silently. I only request forgiveness for the awkwardness, for petulance, for lack of discipline, and for borders disobeyed.

© anita di bianco 2018