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.

There were mountains.

Some green.

Lots of rock.

It was twilight much of the time

except when sun spanked the horizon.

My ancestors noticed these things

only as it pertained to goat schedules

and meal preparation.

Few of us have looked up or dared

to imagine something more.

It doesn’t matter.

There is no more than mountains and

green and rock and dinner.

It was a three-man team,

following me

as I meandered

along the trail

for the first time

since bears and floods

held sway.

One moth was white,

another orange,

and the third yellow.

They flitted alongside

above the brambles

as I held my body tightly

watching and listening

for signs of danger.

They seemed to hover close

as if they were wondering,

“is she alright?”

After much shuffling

through mud and sadness,

I asked myself “am I alright?”

I made it back to my car

refreshed but with no answers

and the moths returned

to the woods.

Watchers of the aimless.

Today is tidy, all components

fitting together like a packed sausage.

Not much room for sentiment

when drowning in tedium.

The trick is to keep at least one thing

to yourself, wild and unpredictable.

It helps stave off the full brunt

of quiet desperation.

Standing on a shifting planet

staring at soft outlines of clouds

intermingling with each other

making sky fractals

remembering how important

maps used to be

before an inner gravity

pressed the landscape

into a non-nutritive pancake.

A little syrup and morning is redeemed

but the great gaping hole

in the middle of me

is greedy and this place is uninhabitable.