This life is big, room for everything
generations long, incarnations deep.
the echo bouncing between
first moment and what's possible.
Here’s a puzzle: with so much frontier
how does the stuff still hem us in?
The grand piano, chiffonier and waterbed,
the stacks of magazines.
Feeling stranded on a frigate of clutter
in a big wide sea?
Oh my friend- it's on us!
This life prefers light travel.
The snow blows today in extravagant bustle
because it grew wings. And behind
a morning mirror there are secret sketches,
hound and wolf, rib on rib, croon the moon.
It's the song of ten thousand walking out of Africa,
making invention the crib mate of children,
building a world like Fibber McGee’s closet.
"We gotta clean it out one of these days."
This life rings with the dreams of grey whales,
of March and Blackberry winter, waking
and ready to sprawl like New Jersey.
Best move over, McGee and let it in.
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