Matter is mostly illusion,

the Promised Land,
a cold mist.

I still feel the bruise and the ache
from passing through
the solid block—

mouthfuls of broken promises,
shattered baby teeth.

Was it reeds or rushes kept him afloat?
Red Sea, river of blood…

Each of my highest thoughts,
airborne, attached itself to a fine wisp
of down and went forth—

now and again,
I had a pair of goggles
to adjust.

Finally, everyone wants
a safe, well-built house:

a rubble foundation isn’t enough.

And yet, I was a weed flower
in the cottage garden.

Otherwise, I vanished indoors,
rummaged in my chest of drawers

until I read what God thought.

Now, through the back of my head,

I view a long acre,
a tramp’s heartbreak

and out front

the fruit in my basket
you say you want to weigh up.