Sometimes, it’s hard not to think the brain

its own best

parasite

/ Understand that where a blade of grass ends is where the dreamscape

begins

Like some directionless,

spellbound balloon,

borne between solvent ohm and unresolved

omen

/ I abandon

like a poem this country of mine: like a pollen: like the eye: the I that never quite

marries into clarity

what the body alone purports to carry

/ But then

you are sitting on a deck overlooking a lake, and a dragonfly lands on your knee

and there is a word,

and through its window

the thought that maybe

just maybe—

there is something to this whole existence thing

after all