Today Barbara Jane wrote: "a fellow poet recently reassured me that gravities of center is an artifact. it's a record of the person i was then. i could never write that same book again. and that is why gravities of center is important."

And it's got me thinking about writing as artifact...

Art in fact
Art made concrete

Art left behind like bones
Solid yet only hinting at a greater being
Deliberate (often)
(sometimes) Accidental
Always a record of what/who was

The urge to push a key, to push a pen
Over paper, a brush revealing bones
Drawing bones, thowing bones
Throwing dice, a chance, a risk
Never knowing where it will land
or if it will be covered over again
to melt with rain, become soil
for living things

art is fact

*There are no lost words, even the forgotten ones, for once written they exist where none was before, a record and recording*

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