World Builder

 

This morning I noticed

the cord of my vacuum

had inadvertently formed

the outline of a man,

the discarded shadow

of an imaginary self.

I wanted to believe

it was a sign, if

for no other reason

than to reassure

my real self

that every detail in life

has a meaning, that

even the accidental

has its purpose.

 

Only the night

before while

on the hunt for

the sacred

pinecone

did I discover

I’d been wandering

inside myself

in search of a thing

I could not

swallow.

Maybe it’s our duty

to devour what

we love in order

to gestate

new life

deep within us

like a seed.

 

Today I am desperate

to find something sacred

in real time, even

while at the mercy

of this morning’s

callow math,

I’ve taken to using

my days

with their abbreviated

appellations…

Mon. Tues. Wed.

Thurs. Fri. Sat. Sun…

like the artifacts

of some

humdrum division.

I prefer to think

of this day as a vessel,

each moment,

a cup made of

interlocking hands.

I favor the body's 

geometry.

 

After all, the hours

seem to grow on trees

telling as fluttering diaries.

The seasons groomed

by a sky of

dictatorial stars.

So what if at night

I lay asleep at the wheel.

It suits the territory!

Isn’t it enough that

during the day

I’m awake

at the brake!

 

My predilection for stories

is a narrative contrivance.

Aren’t we all

unreliable narrators

pushing to

the head of the line

to tell things our own way?

 

Here, now,

as my fingers

tentatively glide

across a

dormant alphabet

of keys

like a pianist

creating a sonata

on the cuff,

I sense

the growth-spurt

of a zillion buds.

 

 

2/5/23