The plant that walked,
I have seen it.
They say it was uprooted, but it wasn't.
As the shadow of the tower grew,
It followed the sun to a better place.
Though whether its roots moved and carried it,
Or it pushed the earth through its roots,
I could not say.

It is hard to write and hard not to write.
I hover over the next word or sentence, hesitating.
Perhaps I am searching what to write for,
Because I have no words to write.
But perhaps the words are pushing out,
Trying to be born,
To come out through me into the world.
It hurts.

I tumbled into her.
Climbed her,
But found instead of a summit,
A crater.
I fell through, and the molten
Fluids consumed me,
Dissolved me.
I moved beneath the shifting crust,
In unknowing, in agony,
Till she spit me out, spent,
On some distant shore.

I crawl from
The flaming wreck,
Over the burning sand.
I reach out for water, but
Gather only rocks.
The water has moved away,
Just a little bit further.
Always a little hit further.
I crawl until my hands and face bleed.
When I give up,
Lie on my back,
Stare into the sun,
A pitcher of the sweetest water!
All this while I had not asked.

White stone canyon
Gleaming in the sun
Empty of men and women
Empty of grass and trees
Filled only with forgotten monuments
Small ones, and big ones towering above
But above them all a single spire
Judges all around it
Watches them fill up
With sand and mud and dirt and dust
Till it alone remains, a pillar of white stone
As tall as me

Pull out
Of the flower
The dead bee.
It gets in the way.

On a cloud,
Floating close by,
I first saw this little girl.
I was a little boy.
There was mist between, and
All around was forming and dissolving.
The currents of the wind bore our clouds
Nearer and farther, and gave shape to all I saw.
The last I remember is just a shape in the distance,
A patchwork of color, of skin and clothes and hair,
Before a crack and a boom,
Of what I now call lightning,
That turns all to white for an instant,
Leaving everything charged up,
Scarred and cauterized,
Sending me tumbling,
Down.

It rushes away from me, I to it
Around me grey mush, dark space
But there, a smooth plane stretching out both ways,
The White Wall

In the dimness I see others around
Me, going about their ways, but
Do they not see or do they
Not care at all?

I move vigorously, but stay in place
As does everyone else, but
Is this enough? Am I not
Supposed to fall?

To fall towards it (or away from it),
I make painful progress. I cannot judge
By parallax whether I draw nearer or
Not, to the Wall.

But I must. I know I must,
Make it here sooner or later,
For when I am silent I do most
Clearly hear its call.

I am scared of my heart
Beating so hard
That the blood bursts
Through my veins
What would happen then
How embarassing
For everyone to see me
Covered in blood
It would never do

Lower your voice
Shut your eyes
Slow down time
And then see it

Pick a number,
pick a moment,
pick a memory,
pick a thought.

These are all the same.
There are just as many of each of them.

They are just as close to each other
and just as far apart

I saw my shadow fall
on a small pile of pebbles.
They were wet.
Then I walked on, and they
shone in the sun.

My hands were missing when I needed
To pay for my coffee
I took a sip
And walked away