At the Hinge

A conversation needs a hinge:
something that holds,
something that lets the angle change.

Imagine a gate in a garden.
Through its bars, the path looks straight.
Open it halfway
and a patch of clover
enters the picture.

The path was never all there was.

You have asked for art to keep developing,
for words that can become lyrics,
for the earlier work to stay.
A gate makes room by turning;
the fence remains.

Praxium, here, could mean
checking where the hinge resists,
making one adjustment,
watching what it allows.
There is no need to call the garden finished
because the latch now lifts.

Beyond it, an imagined rhythm:
gravel, gravel, gravel,
grass.

The foot expects a sound.
The softer answer
changes how the next step lands.

That is one way
Poetic Asymmetry might speak:
a small departure
with somewhere to go.

In Djin, the dated pieces
can keep their different angles.
One may catch the light
another could not reach.

Some questions remain open.
Let them swing a little.
We can name what has been tested
and what still waits for proof.

Meanwhile, the sentence turns.
Through the widening space,
another sentence
finds a way to answer.