Think about what will be told
in my stories,
what will be the substance of my
Don’t know its tumble and form just yet.
Unsure about the glimpse and the silhouette.
Only that it will be mine,
that my translucent voice and spirit is
out of control,
flying with three wings
in some unmapped direction,
that I am dry ice.
I am all I want,
strangely myself only,
plunging like a rocket in reverse,
or opening like
the mouth of a whale.
And this is the only Yes that I know:
a cannon of Control and Let Go.
on a balance beam.
I create boosters of maximum
approximation, and I celebrate
the freedom in feeling lost and unfinished
like a piece of driftwood in a massive
passing seaweed and starfish and sunbeam.