stepping into the universe

we all disappeared,

walked straight out of our poems

and into beyond somethingness.

We left the old breakfast things,

the spatula,

the dirty pancaked dishes.

We found a heart stump

and an indigo eye.

It all smelled of ammonia.

The indigo eye saw a tree,

whole in front of the black else,

drenched and shining.

In a differently-bodied vision

light iced a snow-white clearing.

But the great sadness

beyond all the gadding

was this:

Paradise is wordless.

An ice palace.

And that is why

I'll reach for the apple sandwich any day,

and that old sky of ours,

blazing with stars

in the night of the 10,000 things.

I'll sing in the rusty shower stall.

I'll take my stand in the wandering room.

I'll boast at the seams.

Ah, this is hard, bright Forces.