Yesterday I left my body behind.
I viewed the world from the telephone wires
that criss crossed outside my window
and listened to the low hum of conversations
colliding between my thoughts.
It’s funny how easy it is
to get caught up in futile things.
I tried to count the cracks in the ceiling over my bed
but it was hard to decide
when one crack ended and another began.
Intersections always seem to follow me;
Lines cross and tumble over each other
as if they are racing to some unknown destination
and by attempting to slice each other in two
they’ll become more significant when they finally find the finish line.
I have always wondered if telephone wires
feel meaningless compared to
the great wide horizon that presses against them;
reducing them to nothing but scribbles
against a backdrop of the infinite.
But the infinite must end eventually too
and what is the infinite
if it has nothing left to say?