Half the time it’s nothing,
I am nothing, no more.
But like the fickle wish uprooted,
the deliberate, persistent,
rather indestructible weed of sovereignty—
Whether you like it or not,
this is with us, this
vapid void of starlight,
this vacuum whose bosom retains
the ethereal question of the Suns.
How cruel is delicate?
How beautiful.
I paint with my two fingers
the bed of the mind with resurrection.
Predatorial death
seeks to end, but
I begin in the soil
a seed of plentiful Visions,
only ready to become myself
fragrantly, at last.
10/20/2016
Vancouver