Almost There

Almost There
Last night this morning
I lay in the indefinite dark
not thinking about the planet
or its governments,
two common sleep-deprivers.
Not thinking at all.
But feeling a gift,
water in the desert,
fill the place where thoughts form
and wash them away.
The surf-like rhythm
slowed my breath
in time to “It will be ok.”
I know. I know. “It”
may not mean human
or even planet, but
“It will be ok,”
is what it left on the tideline:
the potency of absence,
Keats’ negative capability.
Make of that what you will.
I will.
S. Robbins, September 18, 2020, from Readings

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