To be a good person is to carry the luggage all time
watch the shoulder sag under the bags just when you have cleared
the window to see the dew fall off a leaf, the sun curl in the space
Because you cannot crawl down the cave streaked with the feral matter
the tale of cosmology gathers in the line under the eyes,
cups the breeze stirred by the flight of bats. The traces that exist
are the arms of delusion.
A line of ants ambles over the rump of clay in a journey
where there is no place to arrive. You want to open
the door, slot the key into the hole of possession. How easy
to give that away by lying face down
feet waving in the air, grasping torques of amber light.
The soft pouches of tissues like bags of coins slump along the path
with missteps too late to correct, the metaphor in the throat
falls through with black ash.
Matter shifts in shape, moves along the thin line of time
in a hospital ward folded in the crispness of departure. The awning is drawn
taut to gather particles of sun from the face as the smell of paper
is wasted on the foliage of trees.