A Burst of Convolution
The world doesn’t remind me
enough of the moon to be familiar.
And yet, in my eyes is a garden in
Rain keeps falling inside out, and I
know how to find leaves when all
the trees are bare. I can’t see the
clouds, but can touch the sky.
Filtered through the sun, my
shadow is drawn with coal.
About a month ago, I asked the
snow where the seasons go when
they end. I never heard what isn’t
silence, but I now hear every
shatter and fracture.
The idea stuck with me that the only
thing I’d ever love is how
picturesque impermanence is. But
then again, I’ve always seen too
much in nothing.