that the landscape
of your life
is much less
well-defined, much grander
than you realize;
of wise and benevolent
and your body,
that the mind,
for instance
is a territory so vast,
you can always close
your eyes and just
go where you like—
but what good is
such talk
when all your exploration
is suggested, pre-planned,
and confined
to the sidewalks?
For all you know, your brain
is a rip-roaring,
interstellar band
time-tunneling
space aliens;
and your body,
perhaps, is a
harmonized tangle
of vibrating,
proto-conscious,
intergalactic superclusters—
but such grandeur
hardly matters when
everything you are
is sent fissuring
off on its
limitless way
to a vastness so
definitive, allowable,
uninteresting.
