… if this is all there is between Hydrogen
and Graveyards of the winds; I’d lose
myself to the season of Dust; listen
to dragons fly, grazing the different gravel
of stormy weather. I’d learn Code and
hyphenate orangepeel. I’d turn blind, eyes
to the Din:the gust of billowhurt uneven
in the August air. I’d spy on trees that whimper
of lives once lived. I’d swirl back
into the Commonplace; learn Slang to escape
language. I’d heap Emily’s spectacles into baskets
let life drop itself headward downwind And breathe
the immaculate being of a River, reflecting dawn’s moon.
I’d slice open smiles, undressing their innumerable fictions
and snack on the paradox of such infinite halves . . .
I’d ring time, trample maple until the wind dies for leaves
to quicken my dying, tended, to the depth of crucifixions
before supper And play deaf to the still lingering
jaundice within: forgetful of how you love your several
measures of Self.
©2011 Isabelle Mae
