I’m walking on some floorless floor
in a world of blurs and darkness that is my mind,
to find myself throughout some blueberry bushes,
smelling of iron and mange and shit.
The little loudspeaker in my head is blurting
how special I am in the way that
I’ve learned how to push my wants through my fears
and up into their freedom where they then fly upward
beyond that freedom
and into a vast emptiness that doesn’t support
the weights of pain and pleasure,
but the truth is I can’t hold these worlds within emptiness,
because emptiness holds nothing other than these worlds.
I just want to believe every little thing opens
onto a spider’s view of a rose,
which then opens onto a story of love lost,
which opens onto a story of my mother leaving
which then opens onto a story of how
a broken man comes to regard hope in a positive light,
restoring his faith in humanity.
I want to think that each thought I have
is a way of signing my initials of approval into my own skin,
opens onto a cascade of my body tumbling
through identical versions of itself until I disappear
into a line of poetry that marks the limits of my seeing.