There is an inherent mystery to this world.
It’s a secret never spoken because, simply, it can’t be.
Someone tries, the words get caught in the throat, cleared
out with a cough and are never heard from again.
This secret, as long as we continue to scratch the surface of truth, using our
senses to justify understanding some form of deep meaning, is only seen,
seen on dark nights, when the lights of the city illuminate the
rough edges between the buildings where the contractors
messed up and they don’t touch, but we see it.
From our walk-in closet sized apartment room windows we see that
invisible glow that’s shared between the buildings,
between the rats
and the roaches
and the two cats
that live in the building across from me
and between us.
that you get
on the street
in Bellingham in November
as you push open the wooden door to your favorite chowder house,
and also the feeling you get in the heat of a Twin Falls summer
when the dry wind kisses your cheeks and you look across the canyon thinking
that the world could tesseract beneath your feet and you would be almost
instantly back to where you are at this moment.
Staring out of your window, wondering why all of us are so
animalistic that we put ourselves, voluntarily, into a personal zoo.