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 Over a dock railing, I watch the minnows, thousands, swirl
themselves, each a minuscule muscle, but also, without the
way to create current, making of their unison (turning, re-
entering and exiting their own unison in unison) making of themselves a
visual current, one that cannot freight or sway by
minutest fractions the water's downdrafts and upswirls, the
dockside cycles of finally-arriving boat-wakes, there where
they hit deeper resistance, water that seems to burst into
itself (it has those layers) a real current though mostly
invisible sending into the visible (minnows) arrowing
 motion that forces change--
this is freedom.
This is the force of faith.
Nobody gets what they want.
Never again are you the same.
The longing is to be pure.
What you get is to be changed.
More and more by each glistening minute, through which infinity threads itself, also oblivion, of course, the aftershocks of something at sea.
Here, hands full of sand, letting it sift through in the wind, I look in and say take this, this is what I have saved, take this, hurry.
And if I listen now? Listen, I was not saying anything.
It was only something I did.
I could not choose words.
I am free to go.
I cannot of course come back.
Not to this.
It is a ghost posed on my lips.
Here: never.

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