Tabula Rasa

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

each morning, 

clanging beneath the cold of a smug half-sun,

the sparrow singing somewhere near,

the fog of morning on the windowsill,
and you

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.