A poem falls short; I'd like, instead
to draw a single line from me to you
and watch it curl into a word
so beautiful it's still unsaid –
or press paper to the window pane
so that the day might saturate
a note that brightly warms your hands,
spills birdsong from imagined trees
and buzzes like fat bumblebees,
but I am bound by language, love; I can't.

How come
   the present does seem
   remote and the long
   past as though recent?
   yet looking at the prism
   of time, the future
   appears to have happened
   in conjecture and imagination

   not three
  but a single person
  living in three dimensions
  
  what counts above all
  is individual freedom
  assured so seldom--
  too many indeed
  are trapped in self-prison

  to make sense
of this perpetual conundrum
a long net of life
I'll hurl to harness
the divisive
and have it transformed
into a single collective
I'll know sans doubt then
I've arrived at the wholesome.

it was one of
those days

and I needed
no one to know

so I opened my
mouth wide

and created
no sound

it was my
inside scream

letting go of
everything

letting everything
penetrate me

the vibrations
breaking ribs

I was caving in