A falsetto of anguish sings
“give up being audience
as method,
just replenish in the now
above all else”.
For all cells seem to drink
from the same resurrection
without remark.
The clock face
drunk with cadence
blithers some new body language
in an indifferent time-telling stance,
yet this is still
a replenishment of now.
Spellbinding without induction,
a fluidity without wings,
a levity
without weightlessness as means
yet this is within
the nucleus of now.
An interlude without a start or finish,
an inquiry without question,
a refrain without repetition
yet this still is within
the consummate presence of now.
A flint and steel spark
without striking,
a radiance without manifest,
hypnotic yet without trance.
These paradoxes as elixirs are,
by any or all of these means,
quintessential method,
unavoidably transfixed
as the eternal bow
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