terra incognita

(the garden of esoteric algebras)

this is the place I felt from the upstairs window,

as a child,

that obscure pocket of atmosphere

not far from the birdbath

and the shiny black Buick, parked in the driveway.

this is the area I noticed

out of the corner of my eye,

lurking beneath the trees,

in the morning rain…

that small quadrate of the yard

churning above the grass,

like a hurricane of infinitesimal gestures

awaiting singularity.

*

these are the short concussions of silence

detonating between the clicks of the clock

kept under the glass bell on the living room mantle ---

next to the miniature rococo landscape

I used to contemplate,

and the exodus of seconds

fleeing into its chiaroscuro...

this is the deep green twilight

beyond the open porch,

galvanizing the bulb of my senses

with semi-dark…

spreading its signals over

an electric-ethyl oasis

of ganglion…

showing me pictures

of other times,

and other places…

*

this is the noise that stirred me from sleep,

long ago,

in the middle of the night,

rustling behind the clothes in my closet,

gliding across the vacant, moonlit meadow

of the ceiling,

gathering into vertigo corners above my bed.

this is the glow of a streetlamp

bleaching sepia through the curtains,

telling me not to be afraid of

the shadow behind the half-open door,

made of emptiness…

this is the burden of insomnia,

pressing down upon my blankets,

dragging my retinas

around the entropic walls of a restless hour.

these are the discrete exponents

of foresight

penetrating the subconscious

without a sound…

injecting my dreams with joules of optimism

and pathogens of self-doubt…

*

this is the stranger in the crowd

without a face,

dispatching its legion

upon their appointed errands…

kneading tricks and mishaps

into the pleats of perpetuity…

planting a cancer into an unsuspecting organ

here

awarding an extravagant fortune

there

these are the questions you might reserve

for the twisted, thermoplastic gargoyles

of the car collision,

or the jagged, psychotic autograph

of the Richter scale.

this is the chaos of chance,

asserting its dissidence

over the realm of matter,

drawing the ampere to the ohm,

stretching your periods of ellipses

into the blind conjunction

of the coming moment…