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The quality.

THE QUALITY There is in each body something splendid, I think, a kind of sheltering, say, the suit of hours we wear like weather, or instinct striking the spine's cold accordion, that ripening of reflex that is the mind's appetite for testimony, yes, in darkness there is strength hoarded against damage, say, the flowering of desire imprinted in the infant's smile as it awakens out of its dream of creation, I mean pain is not sentiment only, but a fierce healing, like light rebuilding, out of darkness, our original boundaries, yet something is lost in the growing, yes, the greater the gift the more troubling the sleep, like lovers lost in the body's cold spin, we are naked within the shell of our temperament, being greater in mystery after violation, yes, like strips of horizon, the spirit unwinds its gift of a single life, moment by monent, say, that quality of love That is not physical, but sensed, like vision burning in the eye's garden, yes, once again spring arrives after winter's long ash & I accept despair's selfish fruit as the fermenting of wonder that springs out of everything lost & dying, say, that furthering of instinct, which, like the spider's ambition to infinitely extend its life another inch of light, glistens like rain over the attic window where I sat as a boy entranced with the radiance of first longing, yes, a quality so distinctly hhuman we glow like light burning over all the fire-struck windows of our lives.

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Author:Schultz, Philip
Publication:The Nation
Date:Oct 6, 1984
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