on writing

I see things
Like the way a train sees America
these empty, well worn tracks,
going new places on familiarity.


Hopefully we will know ourselves by these connections.


Like the apple,


except this time,
    the apple is green.
    Or, suddenly, it tastes like a strawberry.


Or, metaphorically and philosophically, it is the needed fruit for eventual forgiveness
and literal understanding.


       Or, it isn't even an apple at all.
            Maybe it's a swimming pool.


Floating on your back,
you see yourself in the stars
                               the moon

                   the beautiful blue-black night

that envelopes you.


That unknown night,
    waiting to be explored,
the strong-arm of love.