I have seen myself abandoned for dead
in the ochre sands
whose grainy and dissolute form
the soul’s corruption has taken
You were at first a mirage
and then a question, briefly
until, finally, a permission
And I wondered the same things
over and over,
wanting not as much to be addressed
as to have my right to feel,
I was the kind of tale
you can’t put inside any box.
You have to listen.
You have to put aside the bottled clichés
and watch how things—those you have
long established breakable—
can break differently.
And even then you’d have to
just stand back and let it
find its way through its own rules.
Who says you have to cure every ill?
Who says the work isn’t done
after you’ve granted them reality
by giving them names?
Because maybe it is beautiful in itself.
Because maybe the realm of what’s true
is clawing its way through what’s common
through the oldest of platitudes: