Nowhere Is Also a Place
Very often when I listen to the list of
my previous jobs, I wonder if I exist.
A murmur of clouds and I’m all wind,
newly crowned king of scatter in the yard
lying three clicks south of the House Speaker’s
lawn, which is plush green as his wallet
and immaculately tended though he’s odious
as a PB-and-onion sandwich.
A sprinter at dawn will be a marathon runner
by dusk is the kind of prophecy we can count on.
A trace of civet reminds me of an intangible wound.
The girl in glasses and heliotrope-colored undies
who’d belt out French pop songs in the kitchen.
There it is: another fib masking in the form of hope.
Because nowhere is also a place
and zero’s the numerical equivalent of now,
some days my driveway looks like it’s waiting
for the space shuttle to land.
Where we are a theoretical topology of touch.
In physics, a particle has been known to tunnel
through mountains. It can be argued that sleep
is a form of deep-sea divination where the brain
glows like coral. Breathing a pleasant
derangement where anemones are blowing
in tomorrow’s radiant breeze.
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