I do the best I can.
It is not enough.
I search for gold in my veins.
The rust of iron is there.
A piece of mildewed paper
with words,
clothing I’ve outgrown.
The house of my soul
is built from sincerity.
Love of plain things.
People dear, beyond belief.
Admiration for beautiful faces.
A sense of doors.
I do not know what’s behind them.
I know I will live somewhere,
always.
I know that now.
Even to be dead I will know that.
So I wonder how things happen,
the places I am going.
Will I ever know where light comes from?
Or what atoms do in the dark?