I become the canyon, its dreaming eye.
In the last days of my marriage to God,
I descended their spiraled library relentlessly navigating
stacks of shell tempered mortuary offerings,
sandstone sores recovered from the caves.
I lingered on history's worn stone steps
to write these things, to recollect myself.
What had I unburied?
What had I freed?
And what is freedom from the human need to catalog and clock
our porous lodes?
I gazed, eyes closed, at the moon's cratered walls.
Spiders encircled me spinning their silks
as I listened to the tuning suspension
of the underground particle colliders vibrating
between silence and motion.
By midnight, saplings had sprouted from my hand.
The clouds dissolved into semicolons.
And I with them into a new language of branching gestures.
Airborne spores from one infinitesimal thread,
a pattern.
It was my first act of disappearance.
I would return before anyone noticed poems
to be found in the forest, not the mind.
There's a canyon between this version of me,
and the shadow on the stairs that is mine.
I became this canyon, its dreaming eye.