Verses start
with some jottings,
notes
toward the real thing,
drawings
of something
I can't map
my mind
onto.
I guess it's all
true—
mountains are mountains,
huge
and secular;
they don't represent
distance
or fortitude—
only themselves, only
the background.
And water
is water—in an ocean,
in a toilet,
locked deep
inside a strawberry.
Speaking of which,
Love might be
well represented by
a leaf,
a grass blade,
or a grain of beach sand—
each humble,
potentially irritating
to the skin
and hardly ever
discussed
as a thing
all by itself. Which is exactly
the point,
since—when
the chorus
gets here, it'll be ripe
for how
all things
are interdependent—like ripples on the
placid reflections
of everything
else in this
lake of a universe,
and how
chord changes
now, are
a total illusion,
and how everyone—
everybody
everywhere
is exactly one,
is precisely
the same thing—especially
me.
