Clarity

Please come to me
long stranded places
of straw and foreign
birds that are the
substitute for the radio.

I will wear my rainboots
every grey day,
and my bare feet
every sunny day.
I will wear my linen dress,
it will dance with the wind,
and my body,
and no one will be there.

My bed will be velvet,
and my floor will be wooden,
and the cliffs will drop down
to greet the great grey sea.

The sea that becomes
one with my aged,
ankle dropped soul.
Quicker, every morning
that I hold my yellow mug
and swallow my coffee
and stare into the
calming expanse of another world.

Somehow, this complicated
heavy world is an elixer
that quenches every bit of fairy made
wanderlust that eats at the corners
of my purple brain.

What is there to find here?
Sea salt mushrooms,
barnacles that are the ambassadors
to our dry world.
Dry and cold, light and airy,
this paper in the wind world,
that borders the expanse of sea.

The eigth dimension
the unexplored oblivion
that clouds our minds,
and stops them.
Why do we look out at it
so goddamn much?

Because it gives us a chance.
A chance to live
without halting, without clarity.

Don't idealize clarity so much.
It is not all that it is.
It is haunting, dirty, baked and brittle.
It's cavernous.