love of better being

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Keywords of our lives may be so overwrought, they mean little anymore—or merely serve specific contexts, having that—but no more singular integrity than scale and horizon of a life has singular definability.

The poets who keep it simple implicitly appeal to us to feel truly
each point that’s here.

“What is being?” may feel funny, because, well, whatever (whatever?).

One understanding may be better—may be better, may be better—
than another, though always relative to granted interest that provides
a point to preferring or to bearing preference.

And love.

Of: about being derived from (love of..., as if that could be);
or about being regarded (that-could-be is loved). Would you care to dwell with all 18 definitions of ‘of’ in Merriam-Webster’s Unabridged?—29 sub-definitions among the 18 that aren’t “obsolete” or “archaic.”

Anyway, inestimably valuable are ‘being’, ‘better’, ‘of’, and ‘love’.

In a flow of the day, these sacreds—or any—are “taken for granted”
like a happy child’s bearing: there, merely, and just.

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He has the beginning he’s wanted for the next cycle of his darling project. It’s seven short parts, written the past few days, which turned out to unwittingly preface what he’d prefaced last May, following its preface
of February 15.

So it goes.

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