he talks of the weather
and i secretly hope that he speaks of anything else.

not because i am not interested
in the way the trees will sway
on a certain day,
or the amount of rain that
will come our way.

but because i am much more interested
in who he is.

i want to know why the weather fascinates him,
how the world makes him feel,
i want to know his favourite movie or book
(please let him be a reader)
and the way he takes his coffee in the morning,
and i want to hear about who inspires him the most.

i want to memorise all the smaller
more vulnerable things.
in hopes that one day we will run out of things to talk about,
and then we might turn and say,
“the weather is meant to be nice today.”

Timing, instants are details, sfumata matter
softness sensed
you know

------------------
This treeform knowing, watching life's works
conform to species, fully capable of doing

just as has been done,
selectively by patient hopeful gard'ners
and talented statistic students,

and Bible reading reformed drunks,
who had a deal with the truth, a good one,
told as
truth, being considered comprehendible,
by any mind declared independent enough
to know, truth's held as knacks is held, tight,
-if self evidence is all you got, you gotta define.
right thinkin'
tight enough to feel the weight of the wand,
right, just enough to let the child feel the water,

feel it, there, that shush, little baby,
we didn't know, we didn't know life is so hard,
at the edge of the roads all paved and painted,

while I feel blind in one eye, from onions.

it means the innermost room.
the room where the first point is made that
makes the man, the place of unshared secrets common to us all,
the penetralium.

penetrate my heart, and that is where you find yourself
wondering,
is this for real or fun.

We call William James to witness:
Where there is no difference, no distinction is to be made.

Some thoughts seem insistent, believe me,
others seem confident that your unbelief, changes nothing.

Beg to differ, please.
Is the meaning clear? Penetralium.
Now Emily Bronte and me and John Keats all mean nearly
the same idea, at core, when we employ this once idle word.

Why I wanted to know about horses?

Just precisely that: to know.

To know the species, their characters, their souls.

To know how to respect, accept,
and control.

To know the nuances and knowledge
only experience brings.

When I said I want to know horses,
what I meant were these things.

is there a thought in
mind or habituation
there is not knowing