The Statue of Liberty

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,

impossibly myself,

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.



I manage

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

crystal ocean,

passing seaweed and starfish and sunbeam.

Floating along.


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