It began in sickness, a delirium,
But it took root, snaked its leprous vine,
In ritual, in careful preparation.
I’d always desired to be a farmer,
And I at last found a use for my hands.
The mind is a closed and shuttered home,
Ever-cloistered in its ever-inadequate walls,
Unable and unwilling to open a window
For fear of that compounding creak
And plume of dust, disturbed.
Our mind becomes all minds-
A compulsion, a creeping fog.
It performs its secret ministry,
It davens and sways and bends.
I forget myself, delirious, and when I awake
I feel the remnants of a powerful nausea,
The sense of a poison tincture
Clinging to the skin of my veins.
A film of ash clutches a fence spike,
And I can’t help but see myself in its eyes,
Always in that bleary winter light.
Poison, Poison, Poison.
But my hands take to the work naturally,
With a foreign relish. I forget myself.
The moon bathes in a stream,
The streetlights tie together,
Light in light in light,
The constellations speak freely
To the speckled spokes of a wheat field.
The quiet Earth revolves quietly.
I forget myself, how wonderful.