THE BARBED-WIRE FINGER PUZZLE
In every nothing, something waits
like an icy needle in my left shoulder
as I close my eyes to watch the black sparks
flow out of my slow, hissing exhalation.
Two-day-clean slate, two days of no pain pills,
sleep occuring in two-hour wedges, dreams blank walls for empty frescoes
Twisted skeins of memories form all the lives I have not lived —
in all of them, gravity is the enemy.
The ability to dream is a specific gene,
crushed by culture, by the false gods of
any belief in anything
When elevator doors open,
I step into space for one weightless moment.
Someday, the floor will not be there.
I’ll leave no legacy;
only a trembling example,
a cobweb in a cloudy forest