Mistaken Identity
This is a fiction, in the way that breath
is not the inhalation and exhalation of air,
in the way that meaning is not constructed
in the moment my back slides down
along the solid and stable trunk of an oak
In that way, these words do not tell the whole
story, nor do they reveal the skeleton
within this flesh, the frame upon which we
hang moments on the cross, worshiping
the slow passage of time, on our knees
* * * * *
The walls of these rooms reveal the images
that sustain me, but much can be read
in the white spaces, the emptiness
There are stones on the altar, memories
of weather-beaten shores, mountains
I have climbed, but the emptiness is loud
* * * * *
You might be forgiven your assumptions
of who I am, even I struggle to piece
together the elements: earth, air,
fire, and water: so little is solid
Books are no help, lined upon the shelves
and stacked in corners, volumes on every
subject suggest an eclectic mind, or
a body seeking solid ground
* * * * *
This is a fiction, in the way that all
things are unreal, in the way that minds
build towers of meaning that lack
earthy foundations, lack the roots
that hold trees against fierce winds
In that way, anything I might write
is only a proposition, words without
anchors, like liquid poured into the sea,
one word among many, so few words
to say what can never be spoken
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