The spaces feel like fields. I trek carefully. I see scorpions, adders, aardvarks. It seems a dance, an aching. (A storm is featured in the horizon.) The beige desert is unfriendly. I keep rereading it. I awaken, yawning heavily. Those mythical days passed swiftly. They say—never romanticize it. Such deeper wisdom. I imagine I did this to self, moving quickly—uncelebrated habits. I keep
distracting self, nearly ascetic, seeing in self a creature rising. I would doubt asceticism; it would come naturally. I see a sky spigot. I desire to partake of it. I approach the nozzle. I open widely. I was filled for a time. New heights, new woes, new ponderings, indeed, new demons. I must return to the nozzle. I must remain full. It doesn’t mean clarity, nor freedom from woes. It means
a feeling, as right there, in an intimate space, those vast fields. I lie down to visualize joys, a measure in souls. I compose a portrait filled with colors—hibiscus, wild berries, barns, farm animals. An indebted memory; each to have met. To fall into a lighter slumber, slightly abashed. In debating what’s necessary; in distinguishing between images—inconvenient darkness.
