A map, a harbor, and then a horizon,
I broke one window after another until
the light was cut by an edge. Now I'm alone
in silence, which profiteers call sadness,
but of course it's not. It's profound
and pa**ionate, a hand coming down
on a wooden table and the table cracking
from anger at co*ktail umbrellas, doom,
and thunderstorms. The roof beams
grow older, and weaken while the mind
pushes out against them. The mind
lashes out and throws peanuts at the painful
body, wild in its cage of time. Between
the soap boxer's parallax and the mime's
gentle syntax is a way to tell the tired people
who I hold dear, who follow the sun,
my thoughts on anguish, mirrored windows,
and the possibility of a new village
built entirely by unconscious acts.