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Poetry

Something whispered I wanted more of myself.
That’s how I turned into the fleur of myself.

The lake. The ripple’s shimmer. That lilting face.
I’ll guzzle the infinite pour of myself.

What is this flow I feel, its course through soft bone?
The current? The mother lode? The ore of myself?

Fill me with all things. Empty me completely.
I winnow and still am the store of myself.

Imagine earth, the stars—all space expanding—
And finding everywhere the core of myself.

If soul’s estate means a mansion’s many rooms
Then someday I will take a tour of myself.

Do you think me insane, my hypocrite twin?
A catatonic’s stare? The whore of myself?

Call me this. Call me that. Call me what you will.
I surpass beyond words the lore of myself.

Time blooms with space, and their sum’s all I am.
I am forever the before of myself.

Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty, Beauty is Truth….
X to nth power is the shore of myself.

Narcissus—the name a wind passing through wind.
Now watch me step through the door of myself.


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