Do the soul’s arms hang down at its sides? Do the soul’s legs extend down from its hips? Do the soul’s eyes float above…
There’s a lot to be said for
growing up. I don’t remember noticing it much
until pubic hair. Then the body
takes off in all
directions. Big feet. Boniness. Boners. Brainstorms.
It must feel strange, inflating that way into
space. Touching other
worlds by increased dimension alone. Trying on
thoughts never before entertained, voices imitated
nothing like your own. Skewed
attitudes, screwed-on faces,
one of which might be yours.
The reluctant largesse of being
about to be fourteen,
strapped to the
seasonal wheel that pushes the
past behind it as it
rotates forward. Ironing you out.
Making you more dimensional. Taller.
Perpetual summer with collapsing panels in it of
winters and deep dark troughs. Where you may find
oil rolling into braids with water. Gut
messages. Lengths of time
lengthening. And there it is! White
eagle in a pit! It
rises all of a sudden –
6/11/2002 (from Like When You Wave at a Train…)