Is the acorn aware of its own capacity?
Is a caterpillar of its metamorphic potential?
What do I know of such monumental exercises of will
Wrapped tightly as I am in these finite linens?
When truth is all around like ether
It is almost impossible to conceive
Without a significant collision
I was already late when I bumped into solitude
I pulled it along for company
I was running into a wood head first
Getting my face grazed by the moon
(It felt like yoghurt, by the way)
I rushed ahead of myself so as not to lose nerve
And I had to remind myself that I am not the enemy
But a simple troglodyte entranced by fires
That the many-worlds are dripping with probability
And that nothing is more sacred
Or more profane
and ultimately if there is no i
who coughs up these questions
while the sky sputters?
and why does the bluebird sing
with such abandon?
Sleet tapped on the skylight
In its usual crescendo-decrescendos
Yielding to the wind solos
A pas de deux that went on for hours
While the dogs twitched and
Whisper-howled at the moon in their dreams