Contemplation On Bleachers in Humboldt Park
I’m learning I’m scared of the things I understand.
Of the things that I cannot: light cutting through
The fence and becoming on dead-aged wood, fractals
of shadows.
When I can dare, I look at what should be
The clay of the diamond, but is the sparkle of albedo.
That is, until the sun shifts its position
And my eyes scroll back to all this meaning again. I know
I’m what’s changing. I know my writing and my life
Do too. When Todd Swindell read aloud:
“These Fears are Real not Paranoid” Harold Norse
Looked wide-eyed at him and began to cry.
Said it was the first time he was hearing his poem.
Was asked how that could be and replied:
“We are unable to see ourselves”. These powerful seconds
Are minutes that were hours that fractured
Days back into weeks that became months into years.
Yet years are months into weeks and into days–
The hours fracture into minutes, minutes into these powerful seconds.
And just now in the 1, I saw all of 0, and was calm.
