Where the boundary lies I can not say,
bending back as snapped birch spine,
where the perches of the real meet
the fattened crucible of an imagination.
I commit there is no boundary;
I can not establish any angle to it.
No cliff face plummet from fantasy into truth.
No one creating the other, no recursion,
no cartilage of thought.
A speaking rabbit of myself works a coffee pot.
When I sip from a cup, past my whiskers,
the coffee chortles down into my warren.
I stand thirty feet tall, or one,
I wake for a thousand years, or one.
You could express to me the absurdity
of my statements, if you were any more to me
than the swarm of more.
Doubt. That's the boundary. You for me, I for all.
The line between dream and rouse is doubt,
and I locked this song outside my ears long ago.
322 Review publishes provocative emerging and established artists. Conceived and operated by former Rowan University graduate students of the Master of Arts in Writing Program, 322 Review is aggressively seeking the best fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, and mixed media works of visual art.
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