The diction of the dispossessed, clattering.
Is there nothing that will glide, or is all to be caught
like a woolen sock in the nail on the floorboard,
caught and ripped and cursed and caught again?
For these are the alternatives: To inhale the world
into the magnificent misery of the solitary,
who feeds and grows thereby, or else, or else:
To fling the particles of person wide, awash on the blue.
Explosion: Tiny feathered hands that touch cheeks,
and rush past, streaming chloroplasts, golden green
and living, is this too much to ask, that it glide
and swell in the sacrament of self-possession?
I am no longer obliged to sit like a china dog
on a table in the corner of the room.