By Carol Quinn
Bodies of ice and dust move through space.
They sleep like seeds in the dark. They bloom
like matches at the edge of what we think
we know. You don’t always see it coming.
Beyond a point, a priori worlds
break down. One December night, perhaps
you’ll keep moving even when you can
no longer feel that you are moving.
Zuangzhi awakened. He didn’t know if he
had only dreamt he was a butterfly
or was a butterfly that dreamt it was a man.
After the lecture on Taoism, a motor-
cycle carried me towards home. I was
a tuning fork pitched to the combustion.
I was an iron finial ensconced in cloud.
In dreams I’ve braced for impact as
the pavement came like static at the end
of a film. I’ve purled like a goldfinch
and I’ve flown. I’ve been a child pearling in
the mollusk dark. I’ve been a stone.