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There are realities that the mind
Alone cannot envision, it cannot Attain (the color of another planet The bow of an interdimensional yacht) But the entire you with all Your senses, with your goosebumps, With your dendrites and your nerves, (Walking through a forest where the stumps Of the trees, the birds, the whirs Of the cicadas, the hollow Of a tree where squirrels reside, The caw of the crow and the trace of the swallow) Which require a stream and A bed of moss, a moon and sun, We close our eyes and hear the trill Of the water and blackbird in unison.
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So when you knock down the walls
The dust clouds rise and cover All of your furniture. How long It will take until you recover Yourself, under the chaise longue. And if you want to lose your Self (because you are too coarse, Or pure but bound, and you can’t endure The tyranny of gravity), you lose The empty hollow of each quill With which to fly. You wanted To be free, you wanted to distill The core of meaning in an anarchy Of art. Oh wise heart but heavy head, Acknowledge gravity, walk freely, Or rise to lookout point, and lack bread. Sometimes a little mental scraping,
Shh, shut up, the oxygen level is Getting low… to free the bubbles Of nitrogen, the carbon dioxide fizz, Whoops, and there (below) are the Thoughts trudging, chained by the ankle, Whipped, dull-faced, where is that Gleam—faint awakenings rankle, Plumes of darkness, and when You want to climb out of this Abyss, hands rough as cement Pull you into the necropolis, Gather in, rise, that iron sky, It is not invincible, you can Plunge into the sunlight To truth and peace in the supernal man. |
 Yaacov David Shulman
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