Poetry’s clerestory and lightwells
Over the heads of protagonists.
The more vivid imagination,
The higher memory’s entropy.
Your body, social category,
Sags in its web of obligations
Like a dense star sunk in spacetime curves.
What goes on within it consumes it.
You’re not the story’s protagonist,
Never mind what imagination
Is whispering inside your body
As you fall asleep. You’re not story,
No matter how many tales you’re told,
And no matter how many you tell.
You’re an opening to the night sky
Where nothing keeps imagining things.