as you spiral deeper into the labyrinth
i think of all the things i have to tell you
if only i could yell loud enough. i do the
yelling anyway, even if there’d be no way
you could discern the echos from the original,
and in that way you have of taking things apart
and putting them back together in a never before
thought of fashion (at least by me), you’d likely
devise a terror-gram out of what i may or may
not have been yelling down to the depths, where
your footsteps—as if they were ever discernible.
anyone who glides their way through each day
as you do has no need for shoes or feet or placing
either upon the cold, dark ground. i wonder if this
is an example of the evolution of birds or how they
must have gotten up there by dreaming thousands
and thousands of nights about other planets and
wings, or sometimes inadvertently floating their
way into the dream of a cartographer who is only
half asleep at best, dying of scurvy and just having
puked up that last albatross, so as not to choke to
death by natural causes. later in the night, the bones
of a quail puncture his intestines. it’s one of the most
painful ways to go, i’m told, still stuck in a state
of narnia where the children i’ll never have refuse
to sleep a wink. lost at sea. lost in space. either
way, it’s always such a tragic disgrace.
