Sitting Behind

I sit behind my thoughts sometimes

And watch the fiction play out

all my selves beaming,

the starstuff and the alien

in my derelict garden.

Like shucking an oyster,

earth splits open

satisfied with seeing.

The camouflage of self

emptied of words,

releasing the grip of my echo,

The butterfly dance

that is life.

This is my quiet place,

this is my sanctuary.

It is where I let the rainbow mist

clear the fires that are raging.

The silent but steady cog that directs all motion:

a handful of glimmering air,

a bundle full of shadow

bash themselves against the air

as the light shines

from distant stars.