my bones fly out around me,
disheveled, pricked by wind, in pain,
and I stand back unshocked.
I read of it in mystic reports,
gossip columns well-known not for veracity,
but for imagination and an odd sense of familiarity.
I have not met my limbs,
but am told of them by
unreliable, unquestionable agents
who circle like missionaries or salesmen,
grinning madly, waving charts written
in a new language which they must teach me,
which I learn, which breaks my body
in new ways around a cruel grammar
of cause, effect, and change.
a dictionary of differences, my body
is an unhappy monument to conflict,
a final scrap of the world before dead peace.
my body will no longer abide the terrible
machinery of discordant striving,
it will grow desperate and unify,
pull parts together across blind space,
it will step beyond organs, single.
it will become alone.
my body will adopt all witnesses
and discover a ruinous temple built beyond praise.
and it will cry out, alarmed, friendless,
and scatter itself abundantly,
once more disunited,
attempting to forget.
all worlds are
out of sight.