So it occurs to me that the voice of
my internal narrator, is, in fact,
trickling downstream—a source of love,
coming, as it were, from what i’ve backed,
this amplitude, across time, that we share.
I tune in with Him, in the bathtub,
waiting on a world that doesn’t care.
i proceed, therefore, to the rub—
access to a brother or sister earth
that outshines this one, at this time.
i embrace, in this way, my true worth,
as they share the good that turns to rhyme,
the means by which the bad is shorn.
i’m connected, then, to worlds of love,
since, for now, the good, here, are forlorn,
divided from those we’re dreaming of.
i visit those from a future detail,
and they, in turn, refine a broader stroke;
i turn, after that, to simpleton mail—
a world without machines to stoke
a background that goes up in smoke,
when, that is, we insist on finer things.
As it happens, i go until i’m broke,
exhausting the sweets of ideal kings,
before turning, once again, to the middle
ground—a glass of water after the bath,
and on to my plate, which, in turn, is full,
leading me down an original path.