to collect
my thoughts;
I write to disassemble,
and then spirit
them away.
As light
through a glass lake
will separate and remain
only as a little heat
and motion
in the waves,
each day, I divide
and further
sublimate my mind
in the hopes that,
in the end, I'll have
materialized my soul—
emptied
my whole self
out into the world.
No map to unfurl
of some buried
cache of interior life;
if no such inner
life remains—there's
nothing left to find.
