The Asking: The Grip

1

Somewhere in today, life rubs. Maybe an errand shoved off again, a conversation being walked around, a name it takes a small effort to hear. Where, exactly? And underneath the account of who did what — is something being held on to there, or not?

2

Close one hand now and keep it closed while the next few lines go by. The forearm reports in before long, and the palm disappears from use. What is the keeping-shut costing? And what, in the rest of the day, is being kept shut at the same price?

3

This morning had a weather of its own, whatever the sky was doing, and it filled everything while it lasted. Name it in one word, without the reasons attached. Has it changed since then? And did anything have to be done to it for it to change?

4

Objects are the easy case. The harder grips form elsewhere: on a person, on how something has to turn out, on a view grown too dear to examine, on the self as it is being performed. Which of those bristled just now, being read? And if the bristling one were called a loan, what would the hand do before evening?

5

When a grip has been found, there is one more place to look: at whoever is doing the holding. Turn that way for a few breaths. You are allowed to keep whatever you find there. Is it a solid thing looking back? Or is it more holding?

These questions are not answered here. Carry one into an ordinary day and see what it finds.