‘Thing’

One personality and so many features and constant

communication. What is this life—this ‘thing’, a

constant manipulator. I see us in a mirror, a lively

culture, craving sodium.

I touched a voice, awoke, grasping for dragons.

“What’s wrong, love?” I see ghosts.

A ‘thing’ has become me, neatly unborn, sleeping

in my crib, and nursing at mother’s breast. I palm,

grip, and gnaw a nipple, warring for dominion.

Thank life, love, and Freud, maneuvering through

the freeways, and back alleys.

I speak of God, a mystic language, gripping a

parachute upon pavement, dearly thankful. And oh,

my Lord, the Truth is wounded.