for Leonard Cohen
Like a pen, like a violinist’s bow, like a voice, like the expression of fingertips, like lighting in a photograph or dynamics in a symphony, like fingerprints, like footsteps, like feathers, like every single sunset and every single sunrise, like first light on cold boulders, like hot asphalt at noon, like a sweeping gesture, like a wink, like a twitch, like flames reaching toward darkness, like raindrops tracing windowpanes, like speech, like silence, like song, like rest. It is an instrument of nuance, a delineation of difference. It is a way to be free.
What is Present, not precious?