I Explore to Write Home About It
Many wildernesses without hard yellow brick
or pipes of chalk-dullard water.
No bricks, but lush valley stones including
many underground. It’s stranger to be not
in the cellar, not kept under ceilings,
but lounging outside in this meadow
where many old things may thud or moan
when displaced by wind or animals
(being everywhere and nowhere with no walls).
Many light-voids make me blind at night—
I hope I will be without many snakes’ teeth.
Outside, no walls to make things into somethings
and nothings—undifferentiated, I saw all
these tired things un-collapsing. Outside,
I forgot about perfection. Many vapors
float in air streams and I give up
what before I tried to ignore
but wanted. My little soul is without
nothing and calmed, unknowing, unspecified.
Nothing is a stranger; I find weaker and smaller
the obstructions which used to have such a strong Yes.
I’ll lose nothing, Father. Nothing is lost.
Or maybe the wilderness loses the skyscrapers
that impeded the way I wanted to expand and disperse,
back when I was choking in the dust of couches,
or any dark matter that told me to sit up straight
and become something.