Monday, September 14, 2015

You are here

As intimate as you are with yourself as imagined by others,
imagine imagining yourself as you are, when imagination itself imagines
changing course — that is, imagine a river, imagining an ocean,
imagining an imagined star — as intimate,
as you imagine, you are.

Somewhere, there is a familiar old coat on a peg,
and underneath, a faithful, sleeping hound.

Somewhere, your shoes are on and you are at the door,
and the hound is up at the turn of the knob.

Somewhere, he follows you out.

Now, that somewhere might be your childhood, or his, or both.

You reckon with yourself.

And then, unexpectedly, the artist changes direction.

You hold up your arms, cry out your palms, and are gone.

How bright, how good, how lovely it is!

Just as imagined, all along.


Jan said...

I can imagine it all because it is and it was and so it must be.
Wonderful writing, William and I am not imagining that~

William Michaelian said...

Thank you, Jan. How bright, how good, how lovely you are.