It feels like I’ve been peeking
from behind a curtain
at most things,
being present and visible
only to my own bumps and scars.
I’d like to sing out loud
but it comes out barely a whisper.
I’d like to greet the world with open arms
but I catch myself clenched and unwilling.
I’d like to take more than a moment
to breathe deep the late summer green,
but my hills won’t wait for me
and autumn will be upon us both soon.
Something slipped between sheets of rain
as I watched wind bend my birch backwards.
I felt the same anxiety as when Tesla revealed trouble with his retinas.
I can relate. I think.
I too am unsure of the shape of reality
in the face of forces we can’t define.
In the name of dreaming, I beg for more
time, more space, and a little understanding.
Is it healthy to jump start
the nervous system
from a lumbering gait
to a frenzy –
like floating on a hyper sea
with a compass spinning,
lightning flashing its grin
over beasts above and below the depths
I hear Bowie telling me it’s ok
because there’s no doubt
it will end
one way or another;
whether mountain or ocean,
sand infiltrates, soil smothers
and soon the spinning will be
our little dusts mixing with other dusts
and oh, stars and thunder and maybe
whale-shaped clouds, if we’re lucky.
