I like it here, and
I'm not leaving.
Inside, I'm just so
spacious and
complex and immaculate,
a great work of art
that hasn't been realized
yet—and you know it.
You know I'm pure
and formless matter—actually
nothing, but
potentially—everything.
Face it: all that
productive thinking
never created
anything, anyway. I mean,
poetry never
baked you a cake.
Then again—a pastry chef
never built any bridges, either.
Then again—no bridge
has ever required
any man or woman
to cross it.
But never mind, it
doesn't matter. I know
you think
you know
too much—and that soon
I'll come leaking out,
the way innocuous oxygen
rushes to fill an invisible vacuum.
Bet you never thought
your head could
get so full of
other people's ideas, did you?
