I dream in objects
and so do you, and rarely is my mind tickled
as when I view the counter the morning after
the coffee cup, the small black computer drive
their atoms compiled into familiar shapes
but what echoes from them, in my eyes
surprises me as radiant fire beneath my skull
and inside my brain
So does day follow night follow day
and the fear that fills my hollow spaces merge
into the fullness of my fibers. I know there is something inside.
But is it fear? And is that where the poem comes from?
And is that a weakness,
or a truth?
It fills the muscles in my neck,
with a twitch and a power,
and if I didn’t feel so powerful I’d know I was weak
Weak, because this is a discovery,
and fear under lights is still fear.
Love stays there, with fear, is fear,
too old to live,
too strong to die.
