I am not a poet ~ the world, as I know it, is.
I am not a woman ~ this world is a woman’s domain
and I am in it and of that.
Nature does not surround me ~ I am nature itself
and I live within my own sphere.
I am not someone imagining what the world might become.
I am that becoming or that emergence in the making.
Hesitation ~ where and what are you? What is this task?
What are we creating as this conversation,
not much different than gestation, something earlier conceived.
Looking out is no more ~ it is not even looking within, it is the active principle
such as breath and breathing ~ continuous and life evolving,
does not need to be named to continue.
Approval ~ what are you ~ takes a unique set of circumstances
to make you relevant, to make your existence, to map the terrain
in which you stretch and wallow and bring forth your experience.
[There are many things we regularly turn inside out (socks, clothes), some even surprisingly, but when it comes to turning this world inside out ~ what of it? What not of it? When can I not do or see or perceive that is so when I receive that calling? Like birth, it comes of its own accord and in its own timing ~ such that we have evolved something we call death. Is that the world turned inside out, birth becomes something reversibly irreversible?]
The world is not me, I am the world emerging and forthcoming
~ only perception forms and forms and forms again.
Sometimes it takes listening to these things loudly, not quietly as some might suggest.
Turn the volume inside out and there is the advantage, the preeminent seeing of what is.
Turning the world inside out, I turn myself out into a world that has
not once yet rejected me or scorned me or humiliated me, but
has me at its very crystalline heart beat, pulsing as aliveness and ardor.
The world as poet opens her domain to the wide spread arms
of welcoming ~ laughing itself awake to itself, hesitatingly unhesitant.