Space on a shelf, in a box,

a place to place things to keep

but never look at

for fear of facing the truth

of a dream of a memory

that didn’t exist

except in pieces of art in books

in libraries in museums.

Time to think, on a trail,

overgrown maybe or very old

but still clear enough to follow

like the little-girl visions

that led from linoleum to moss

without skipping a beat

of the feet of the breathing

keeping pace with sun –

which seems invincible, like us.

Hurt that boomerangs over years

or months or years again

as boomerangs do as people who hurt do

as we take it like it’s communion

with the lowest of the low feeders,

forgetting Darwin and Moses

for a moment, forgetting their sameness

but never letting go a fistful

of broken pieces of our spirit.

Belief in a something larger that includes

us without borders without bodies

with light with dark with pages of

heartbeats spelled out as science as art

as polished wood and painted fabric

as a humming from the woods from

deeper places that we set aside

inside where secrets can be free.