IF THE DOOR’S LOCKED
If the door’s locked and no one home
I just wander off somewhere inside myself
wondering if it matters
I so frequently now
catch myself on the sly
beginning to enjoy my own irrelevancy.
The more I suspect I am nothing
the more I feel fulfilled
and in the far field
on the other side of the hill
that loosely holds the road
that leads away from your house
like the slack string of a kite that doesn’t fly,
it’s bliss to be no one again,
and peace not to have to try.
I lie down in the cool grass
like an empty boat on a farm
and there’s no other side to get to
that isn’t already under my feet
that can’t tell if they’re walking
on water, fire, or stars
or sprouting wings on their heels
like maple samara
taking the fall for autumn.
doesn’t train a teacher
to open anyone’s eyes
to what is and isn’t there
like the yesterday and tomorrow of a star
that puts out both torches
in the eye of an ocean of night
to salt the earth with a light
that can’t stop things from growing.
Irony misses the point
when it doesn’t understand
the transoxymoronic hilarity of creation.
The opposites just don’t engender one another,
they celebrate each other’s birth.
First silver of the moon
on the greening willow
pouring out its heart to the stream
and emptier than my eyes above me
as if space had o.d.’d on a hot shot of stars,
auroral mirages in the vastness of my dissipation.
Because the dark mother
in the abundance of her timelessness
has never stopped giving birth to everything
it’s as impossible to be born once
as it is twice.
Because there is
no inside or outside
to the inexhaustibility of emptiness
her darkness teems with the unborn
who have never known the thorn of perishing.