Life goes to pieces. Books

fall from the shelves

 

by mindpower (as I once

thought, while reading Jung,

 

how important to hang

onto dreams).

 

Pages on the wind, cars going

everywhere at once. A million

 

ants incorporating their

territory. The shelves

 

were faulty construction.

The pile of books I will never

 

read. What drives me, saves

me. I’d prefer to be

 

the manifestation of a girl’s

dreams, what I once achieved

 

on cross-country trips,

while soothed by distant blue

 

tinged mountains and

telegraphic grids of light

 

that left great expanses of

black, where I could look

 

into the darkness and imagine

that I lived there.