No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
The important question is the layout of the palace. I have no training and go about it all wrong, façade first. The thousands of curved balconies, arched windows – how to avoid cyclopean boredom?
They dream too of his multitude of shoes for all terrains – bar the one he has to tread – and wishful readings of his mauled life take on one of their own, being young and hopeful and having futures.
Between two high notes The melody gives a crack Long enough To allow my entire selfhood to enter Like a fish jumping back Into the night water
Lives, whole lives coming and going playing out their brief journey just like that
The hand that touched the paper That moved the ink with inner light.
Wish I could turn myself into these fata morganas, handfuls of sensations that sway me under down pours only dimly understood.