Sometimes I feel infinite, boundless—
I stand in a clearing and feel the trees too close
the shadows too familiar, and
the silences too loud.

I feel the depths and their heights;
when I reach out; I soar—I plunge—
I’m the zeppelin, and the submarine,
but above all, I’m a floating hover-craft,

Twirling around— feeling the cloy of solitude,
the mock of loneliness;
And in my infiniteness I bound it up— the infinity,
in the corners of my being, like a stowaway—

Forgetting that bounding up and
proportioning infinity doesn’t make it any smaller;
I’m bound to suffer here—
here in the middle space of nothing.


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