Today, I’m convinced
that the hard edge
of matter
is nothing but a
soft pillow
of cloud,
that I’ve never seen the earth
because I’ve made nothing
but sculptures of smoke
with the shadows of
the mind.
Today, I might shrink
to a piece of petal
and wait for a flood of light
to drag my sight toward perfume
and thaw my flesh
to dew.
I’ve never visited the world,
standing drunk here between
two columns of dream.
Today, I could have erased
memory with its tail of tale,
today I see there’s nothing
in space
not even the pulse
of silence’s throbbing slumber.
Beyond Language 