if only

if only there was something 

that could tell me
which direction to go
after reaching the dead end
to turn back
or

run straight into the wall

the poem i never wrote

 the poem I never wrote

wrote me in its absence

all that is invisible, 

opaque, silent, illegible

lies in the abyss of that poem

in its infinity I lie without knowing

ignorant of its non-existent existence,

absent presence,

is hidden a world of self

in that poem I never wrote

I long for that self

for that smudgy scattered becoming

for that longing itself is where I exist

in the seeking I shall never find..

perhaps we are constructing a world 

where poetry is no longer possible

where we will be incapable 

of writing one, 

of imagining,

of flirting,

of living in a poem, as a poem

incapable of touching one another

we will succumb in the poem 

that no one ever wrote..

5 9 '26

so lightly,

you wish to tread the world

so lightly,

the ground cannot feel your feet

tremble

the dust is left untouched

undisturbed by your weight

for the air to fill your lungs

so lightly, 

it passes without effort

without the suffocation of borders 

that divide the outside 

from the inside

the shadows you cast 

so lightly,

they camouflage 

with fallen 

leaves and flowers and mist and time

a hum escapes your body

so lightly,

as if it were the earth's movements

the waves tiptoeing

the sun bathing at the horizon

you wish the day flies by

so lightly, 

unencumbered,

on the back of birds 

crossing the human worlds 

of weight, of violence, of noise, of despair..