Am I not
Myself, only half a figure of a sort,
A figure half-seen, or seen for a moment, a man
Of the mind, an apparition apparelled in
Apparels of such lightest look that a turn
Of my shoulder and quickly, too quickly, I am gone?”
— Wallace Stevens, “Angel Surrounded by Paysans”
What is this barrier
Between you and the world?
Between you and the words?
You and love?
Break through it, the way
You always have. A little push.
A little effort. A little something.
Just keep typing.
Let the wriggling out of the shell
Occur, occur, occur.
Let the words cast spells — good ones —
And do the work.
You are halved somehow
In the din of living,
Shaved down a bit,
A survivor of sorts
In the everyday:
Get up, shave, shower,
And enter the possibility.
My mind. The world.
My conception versus my perception.
On that hanging limb,
You rebuild reality.
No leaves adorn it.
And winds blow,
But on that thin precipice,
In that instance, and in this one,
The mind creates
Or destroys.
You be the judge.
