It was empty save for brambles
\nand ferns.
\nNothing grew, as I swallowed
\ntons of light
\nand wove shadows into rugs.
\nI put my fingers on the wall
\nand discovered the world pushed back.
\nBut that was then,
\nand this is now.
\nThe face card found a suit
\nin the deck.<\/p>\n
A story began to tell itself.
\nWords sprouted on the barren ground
\nlike weeds,
\nthen flew in the air
\nand never planted themselves again.
\nGreat flocks of them
\ntalked and talked,
\nand wrote things here and there.<\/p>\n
Letters to the world,
\nto strangers,
\nto the newspapers,
\nand finally,
\nin a journal
\nwritten in poetry
\nwith many mutations
\nand misspellings.
\nSnd I was told by something,
\nor someone,
\nor in a book other than my own,
\nthat in the beginning was the word,
\nand what followed was epilogue,
\nand religion, and politics.<\/p>\n
Until now, I would prefer
\nan outback,
\nwhere I could walk forever
\nwith kangaroos,
\nand never worry
\nthat the world could fill it up.
\nOr what the world was saying,
\nexcept encounter a few people
\nwho appeared magically
\nin the bush,
\nand we came to love one another,
\nand tell stories
\nunder the vast blue
\nwhere everything dissolves
\nin the end.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
It was empty save for brambles and ferns. Nothing grew, as I swallowed tons of light and wove shadows into rugs. I put my fingers…<\/p>\n