personal religion

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk

down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs

to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”

when someone sneezes, a leftover

from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.

And sometimes, when you spill lemons

from your grocery bag, someone else will help you

pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.

We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,

and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile

at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress

to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,

and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.

We have so little of each other, now. So far

from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.

What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these

fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,

have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”

mas, não sabia, há no youtube, dito por Helena Bonham Carter

mas, verdade verdadinha, conheço a poeta por causa disto:

What's gone

is not quite gone, but lingers.

Not the language, but the bones 

of the language.  Not the beloved, 

but the dark bed the beloved makes 

inside our bodies."  

 Danusha Laméris

o melhor é ir mesmo logo directamente à fonte, que aqui não se aprende nada.