THE EYE IS A CITY OF STARS

 

even in my dreams it seems I’m wandering off

the beat or the trail or the railroad tracks as it were

one electric line along my being

brushing against the future

brimming with the past

 

what I resist heaps itself up in ordinariness

uncertain if there’s any help to be had about it

where the whispers of angels never make me certain

where pink trees in pink fields don’t strike me as odd or beautiful

or even Seussical, in spite of them absolutely being just so

 

where what is ordinarily overlooked becomes astonishing

when breath is caught, Existence does the catching