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There is no world like the one surfacing

Joy Harjo



It's midsummer night.  The light is skinny;

a thin skirt of desire skims the earth.

Dogs bark at the musk of other dogs

and the urge to go wild.

I am lingering at the edge

of a broken heart, striking relentlessly

against the flint of hard will.

It's coming apart.

And everyone knows it.

So do squash erupting in flowers

the color of the sun.

So does the momentum of grace

gathering allies

in the partying mob.

The heart knows everything.

I remember when there was no urge

to cut the land or each other into pieces,

when we knew how to think

in beautiful.

There is no world like the one surfacing.

I can smell it as I pace in my square room,

the neighbor's television

entering my house by waves of sound

makes me think about buying

a new car, another kind of cigarette

when I don't need another car

and I don't smoke cigarettes.

A human mind is small when thinking

of small things.

It is large when embracing the maker

of walking, thinking and flying.

If I can locate the sense beyond desire,

I will not eat or drink

until I stagger into the earth

with grief.

I will locate the point of dawning

and awaken

with the longest day in the world.


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