Once,
i was a zipper,
tunneling onward
through the interstate wild
along the straight line of old thought.
Everything that fell behind me lay bound,
and that which was still in front stood open,
ready to merge.
But i never once tore past
the filaments of true trees,
the plain mentality of hills,
the decentered sky, streaked with disintegrating vapor trails,
and wondered;
who is it
that made the rules?
Now,
I am the one who zips-
the zipper of zippers-
and I zip them quick,
because i'm late for for something
or other special
and very worried about the weather.
But I still don't inquire
while i'm busy integrating:
"who is it
that makes the rules?",
because I'm just too busy wandering.
Instead, I ponder what they are,
and whether zippers
can wonder.
