What is to be done?
The day's continually the next,
and birth.

I remember
Walking up the river
on green, smoothed stone;
leaning forward so as not to fall.

To be still
in this current,
but I don’t want to say
that there is
the impossible.

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

the problem is
i care
too much
about
not caring

I have stared long enough at my ceiling that I confuse it with the back of my eyelids

I have named each of the tree branch textured constellations found there

My point is, I do not know how to talk about the rabbit hole without tumbling down it

If there were any paint left to dry, the blanks fired from my eyes would make for the most curious graffiti

The word restless comes to mind, but it erroneously implies that being asleep is the same thing as feeling comfortable when alone

I have fallen deep into the back of my head

My eyes, a distant stained glass window, casting the rainbow bridge back to where I need to be

This is the way