My shoes were growing more powerful
with each day. I walked in the country of letters,
its fields of eyes belonging to my lost sister—
dark eyes that early closed, or forgot
to open. I have not been back in some time,
though often I walk to my office, daydreaming
of that country’s fashions, the clothes of its citizens
like the clothes of my dearest dead or unborn.
In the heaven of letters, I will not walk.
I will not strip the golden clothes from my lover,
the wheat. I will stand, stay with the trees before me,
their ancient charisma that cares for me.
Like all scholars in any sort of heaven, I will study
the metaphysics of madness. I will find
that the littler the light, the better it tastes.
On Earth lately, I’ve been looking at everyone
like I love them, & maybe I do. Or maybe I only love
one person, & I’m beaming from it. Or actually
I just love myself, & I want people to know.
It seems the dead are busy with work we cannot
comprehend. & like parents, they don’t want to tell you
what their jobs really consist of, how much they make.
They don’t want to scare you, the dead. With what’s
left of their ankles, with their new secret wishes.