I respond to messages and would be happy to talk about the technicalities of poetry or life in general.
The space around my body holds
The many things that are not me.
I lack the clarity of air,
I crave the ground’s solidity.
From me to far infinity
The universe supplies my shape,
Its vast concavity confines
Each future I might wish to take.
The surface of my body is
The thing the outside world can see.
To you, the contours of my face
Will give the clues denied to me.
I cannot see myself full clear
Without the mirror’s supple twist,
For me that image is contrived,
By me that image is dismissed.
This space in which my body stands
Contains some substance of my life:
The coolness of a lunatic;
The jagged sharpness of a knife.
But with a pinpoint of my mind
I transfix and dissect the whole;
My outstretched gestures do not lie,
But does such flesh imply a soul?
The separate chambers of my heart
Are things I cannot comprehend.
The swirling vortices, the dark,
Confirm that chaos need not end
Hard on the edge of space and time.
Love, like the emptiness of sea,
Exceeds the bounds of its demesne
Creates reality like a dream.