life is full of holes and I think I've found a new one:
imagine you're sitting on the tip edge of a crane, legs dangling, swirling, singing
most everything that surrounds you is inky grey
life scenes play out far away below--
there's so much air
your knees are wet
quiet,
then at first one shoe slips off, falls, lands, lightly tapping,
and an out-of-nowhere bird calls closer:
"this place is not yours!"
talons on the adjacent rod--/plunge/--
and snap out of it on a bus on a bridge in the middle of the fog,
road in front of you and behind you and a great breathing on either side,
shadow seagulls tumble in the haze:
imagine this was forever
this sound, that rumble, these people--
imagine days and mornings and nights and meals and
long-spaced rest stops to stretch your legs
on the never-ending bridge,
those faces and the intimacy of passengers
in the middle of the fog,
there's a whiteness growing in the middle of your mind:
it's the color of cereal milk
after you've eaten the cereal--
breathe in, "so", and out, "hahm"
you're sitting on a stool in the middle of a large, flat roof on a cloudy winter day:
there's curry in a tupperware, but you're not very hungry.
you've been here before, you think, as you walk
past an old shoe,
and through bird poop
shaped like marks on the ceiling of your apartment
you're lying in bed, staring at marks
on the ceiling of your apartment.
your friends are downstairs, outside, at work,
lined up one after another on a telephone line--
\
\\
\\\\
\
there are places we are told not to go,
places we're told aren't for our limbs or heads,
places outside of productive, of normal,
places we're not to stay in or see,
alone places,
unintentional places,
unsatisfied places,
useless and/or unsuccessful places,
but your bird body finds its way
down a slightly loping hill,
your wings still work, no hole can hold you.
these are places worth seeing, worth being--
places to stay, to watch, to fly from and land.