I live my life in growing orbits that move out over the things of the world.
–Rainier Maria Rilke
We let it be so small,
that which contains us—
the scalp, the skin,
the windowless room
with low ceilings and buzz
of fluorescent light.
We circle and circle
like dogs searching
for the perfect resting place,
traveling in tight orbits enclosed
by clocks that chime the wrong time,
black boards stained with yesterday’s
words, tangled wires and shelves
of books unread.
Sometimes I believe it’s possible
we might become less solid,
move through the walls
like the ancient wave of ohm,
like a rising song. It is so small,
this room of knowns,
and though we have
been bruised before, trying
to turn walls into exit doors,
let us try again a new unspiraling
something we cannot yet imagine.
