Imagine, she says,
a world without burden,
of memory, sense or skin,
unharangued by language or history,
the leisure of the unsortable experience.
Imagine no schema more complicated
than living ever after
the reawakening to windchimes
clanging beneath the cold of a smug half-sun,
the sparrow singing somewhere near,
the fog of morning on the windowsill,
with no thought of what any of it might mean.
A tabula rasa shaken smooth in real-time.
No memory beyond tenderness
No future beyond wonder,
No language beyond joy.