How much easier it is
not to speak to you
not to think of you
not having you to miss
Yes, the emptiness of not knowing you
would certainly be bliss
Why, I do not want to leave childhood
please do not ask me again
That adulthood you are wearing
looks like ragged might-have-beens
But you have grown enough to know
that there exists a difference
longing for youth’s innocence
you cling instead to ignorance
What is worse?
To remain behind these doors
and be the wisest man alive
or to step outside and falter
bewildered by the sky
I am god in this house
I know all within these walls
Outside I am blasphemous
all that awaits me is a fall
Of our curiosity to know
perhaps we’ve Adam and Eve to blame
but if ignorance is so blissful
why is it wisdom we acclaim?
It’s better not to know
we say, still reaching for the fruit
selling away our innocence
to become knowledge prostitutes
The trees were silent
For no wind did stir them
But the mountains whispered
That there was peace to be had.
It was almost violent
The next words to be spoken
“It’s time to go home”
(The moon had risen overhead)
I left peace glistening on the snow
What happened to it the next day—
I’ll never know.
Watch the course-grained fluid
trickle along the glass
passing through the kiss
to fall and land, finite
until none remain
Watch us build castles
great fortresses of pride
falling and crumbling
we reconstruct them
from the infinite to stand
Watch me sink, deeper, deeper
and Socrates draws figures
for me to recollect
or better yet
Jesus bends down to write
How many times
can I make this wrong decision?
(it can’t be a mistake
if I do it with such precision)
How many times
will I return to this same sadness?
(who knew thinking rationally
could be riddled with such madness)
How many times
must I long for something more?
(it hurts, knowing what I could’ve had
–it was offered me twice before)
I am tired of disappointment
and I am tired of resistance
(perhaps that is why I must preserve
these idealizations from a distance)
Now many times I wonder if I can
preserve the potential they claimed to see
somehow prove the metaphorical finger I’ve worn so long
isn’t the only thing the world will see of me.
I am a house with no one inside
but that sole inhabitant that years ago died.
With my ghost voice I called and invited you in
that someone might live in this house again.
But the visitors that come never stay
and these ghost gray lips grow grayer gray
till the day they are not heard anymore
though I still sit screaming behind the door.
The light shines through the shutters
revealing the yellow latticework
that is invisible in the daylight
and what if the shadow shapes of what is not there
are the outlines of this invisible world
available only to the waking few?
they feel the latticework on their face
now on their hand
and wait for some small shadow to climb it
a burglar in the night.
When she breathes a chilly breath
and folds in on herself
and her branches like arms quiver
and the leaves dance and shiver
When she wraps herself in a sunlight shawl
and wears a silver moon cap to sleep
and all is painted red and gold
and the leaves tumble from her hold
When she tethers the short daylight scarf around her neck
and her tears leak from cracks in the sky
then open your door, she is here
and welcome, welcome, Autumn my dear