flesh

grounding in the morning after, i sit at the gifted table. there are such treasures on the street. i am reminded, the gifts are under the stories. the stories of a thing are not related, attached or embodied as the thing itself, being itself. i consider what it is to be in *my* body. to come to know *my* embodiment. to find its center without the aid or acceleration or energetic response of anything else. i consider what it is to just be myself with myself and to let all the stories i have about neeeeeeed and want and fear and anxiety and loneliness and lovelessness go back to where they came from--poof--like the kids did with their poofers--children in the room running with their magic sticks poofing things into and out of being. wands, i suppose they were. sticks with happy ribbons freed from plastic cages and dark spaces of lonely and waiting to be used. these were on the ends of their sticks--stapled? glue gunned? time travels from the here to the now and disappears again. i sit. i move toward the bath. i love to bathe.