May 23, 2020

Revision

I see it again, or perhaps for the first time.
My eyes are rested, but it's the mind settled
out and down does it. Pieces that made no
sense – before – now cohere like twins in
one crib. But the cuter bits just look tired.
Cut them, release them to the wind as food
for the whippoorwills or for the necessary
aging – yours, theirs, or both; they will
return when – if – you need them. Nothing
is lost letting go. Thin, pare, prune. There.