She is obscured by ephemerides and veils,
misrepresented by words, occulted by clothing
and obfuscated by rhetoric. I'm confused
by the layers, the different narratives within
the text and texture. She is obscured by my
knowledge and love. The calendars we keep
divide her unnaturally, the weeks and months
have this strange dynamism. I remember
the words of the bird's language, the intervals
between the pitches, the first lonely song
of a mystic near the mountain. She's obscured
by my desire and will. The calendars I study
make her more mysterious and then somehow
further the separation that's between us.
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