I want to hide from the world,

Where hiding is incubation,

And the ground does not tip,

And my windows are to look through and not reflect,

So that when I open them, I can with a firm hand.

 

There's a place underground

Far away from the threat of the grey river.

But the light is too dim and the ceiling is too heavy.

 

There's a place on the hill

Where I can spread myself

And stand in the wind with my arms outstretched,

And take it all,

Nothing dragging at the end of my limbs.

But being tossed in that wind for so long begins to batter and bruise.

 

Why, when I open my eyes

Does my does my body tremble damp,

And in my sleep I have spoken again.

Sleep is not refuge.

Sleep does not incubate my thoughts,

 

Being awake is the answer,

But being awake is anti-paranoia.

And it's empty and it's white and clean.

And I know I must stay on the edge of the rabbit’s fur,

I must stare into the eyes of the magician

And I mustn't be covered by the warm velvet of that hat.

But standing there is less like a hill and more like a cliff.

 

People bind you

When you threaten to fly away like a child's balloon.

But who wants to be gagged and bound

In a world that has so much to say if you look through the microscope,

If you take the beauty of tea and toast and a hand that brushes your cheek

Then you must speak, and those knotted ropes will frame your horizons

Like a finger over the camera.

 

But, imagine,

Like you do to plug your ears,

Sitting on that boat with no protests to give the three men

And no oar for fickleness.

With surety, surety, in the white-badged waves

That you'll soon become part of.