The Place to Revisit
The place to revisit is familiar
the place I must go into that
tunnel of abstractions, horrors, delighted depths —
a roadway directly toward the center of the earth, having watched the
humanity it houses on its rooftops.
I crawled out of that well – once. It
took me two and a half decades (plus)
on the outside, above
I found the rapture of a flower and taciturn
passings of the moment with
sunshine light emitted
received in all its eons of novelty.
This first –birth of sense, pleasing things pleasing thorough
through past my chest, infrared, in towards
my spine, a spot not altogether pinpointable –
where my fingertips send signals, my sight
reflects back to me with what I am seeing:
the bumble of that bee bumbling synchronized alongside
a breeze-blown petal, barely.
My tremors of attempts to read the scenery and civility around;
developing sea-legs—perceive, respond in appropriate
whats and whatnots. I seem to be acclimating;
that well, still, asserting itself there behind me.
Every romance requires that glance back.
I, now not only myself without, but
within, and wells remain within.