Let It Go, Let It Go, Let It Go
Let it go, let it go, let it go, as if my soul
were sweeping out a season of unleafing,
sodden feelings, sodden hearts, the rose ruined,
cumbrous clouds gusting over the eyelashes
of the treeline like dust at the broom of the treeline.
Cold-blooded, shedding an old sky, half in,
half out, I dream like a snake thickening
in its own coils as the autumn turns soporific
of weaving a flying carpet of the roads I've walked
the whole length of myself alone at night
only to discover that it was me that was flowing
and every step I took burnt like a new beginning
as if I were firewalking a graveyard shift of stars.
If you want to open the third eye of the needle
in the haystack of your mind, set fire to it.
What's left shining in the ashes is a ticket out of here.
The serpent's gone down the black hole
after a rabbit like Lepus at the heels of Orion,
like a gamma ray burst of annihilative clarity
and come out the other side of midnight in an hourglass
drying its wings like a dragon from the chrysalis
of an urn with the intensity of a furnace.
The world crowds out the truth of its own existence.
I'm pierced by the wounded insights of a butterfly
into the crazy wisdom of a flightpath without a starmap
that knows anything about where I'm going
or in retrospect, been. I've spent a whole lifetime
trying to mean what I see when I get myself out of the way
like an eclipse of fireflies. I experience the world
like an abyss with eyes looking into its own ferocious solitude.
I know by the whirlwind I'm reaping, it's harvest time.
The whole earth's a silo and a grave. Wheat seeds
in a pyramid waiting to sprout like time locks
on their afterlife when the planets align with the sun
at midnight to wake them up from the absurdities
of what they were dreaming. How strange it all is.
How vague the assurances of our sacred doubts.
I try to keep faith with my absolute uncertainty
like the third wing of a bird hovering between two extremes
and though I'm full of dark energy, strive
not to be the antithesis of everything else
like the enlargement of space in an expanding universe,
where the stars are moving further apart everytime I look.
Formless, does the mind speak to itself in a grammar of things
like dark matter providing a vocabulary for itself
to say the world into existence like a gesture of light
to keep the heart from reading its fate in between the lines
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poem by Patrick White
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