It Falls Down.
I didn’t know what to say here,
mostly, I don’t know my own thoughts,
or if I have them—or do they have me?
[sometimes] I think that maybe my thoughts climb all together into a mold of clay [me], and breathe and speak without my knowing what they know, and I just wish they would tell me.
What They Know: If what they know is so undeniably mine to own, why then, do I often feel their acuity rushing past me? like a bolt of electricity—[extreme and powerful is their prescience, how do they keep the things they see coming from me?]
Lofty, my thoughts. Rude and lofty. If they only knew how much of their time was mine, maybe if they just knew, they wouldn’t waste it [Time:my time] so much in the region just beyond who I’m being.
That region where the rain comes from—I swear, I think about it. If the place where my thoughts come into form is the place where molecules join and fall to the ground...
p.s. i believe we are poetry, you and i
p.p.s. [although, i am careful to be human. if i weren’t, i’m afraid my feet might float away into that abiss whence all the words came to be.]
