The Words which Undo Me, 
Make Me Too



Hateful words met by the stone walls I threw up -
all over your khakis, to be exact -
which stretch,
and warp the thread of thought,
tenuous, to draw upon these
in the absence of hope:

The mind stalls,
the voice freezes,
and the body locks.

Gentle, though, goes the spirit
ensured, cocooned as it is
by promises made
and the freedom
to endure (in some form)
to walk in shadow
and yet,
in essence,
be.

It has a flawless rhythm,
the tune is dressed
by ceaseless inaction,
that with it brings
a clarity and magnification -
that takes in all
and so begets
the nature of things,
and the quality;

the soft scent of alteration
(the smell of rain
yet to be,
and the fresh breath
of an iris that was
only a moment ago)
which lingers in the very soul
long after all else
has quit this place.

Each grave and careful
footstep of my soul
is printed in light;
in the spaces between
the naming and the sight
which, altogether connected,
shall never intertwine.

My blind right eye,
a coin in one palm
and an apple in my other.
I taste the fit 
when first it steps 
into the void:
A sun swallowed
by a mere mote of dust.

We must choose
to see
but not to count,
to be
but never live,
to take
yet not to give -
forgiving the mind
that cannot phrase
existence:

A peak,
the endless spinning
which removes distinction.
Here, it refuses to remain,
there, in the heart, 
there is 

No Matter -

A whirling dervish
caught in the breath
which once gave birth,
and planted the first seeds
of doubt.