It’s the thing that happened that was never solved.
It’s the thing that happened that was solved
years later on an apple farm outside of town. It was somebody’s birthday,
the bus broke down, and an animal swept across the sky.
Then it hid inside a vowel sung by a woman in a bar at midnight.
That’s when it led me to its secret chamber.
Now it sighs; it’s becoming self-conscious.
Now it’s humming because it hasn’t got the words.
Now it’s telling me its middle name, which it’s never told anyone.
When it says pain, it means all pain.
When it says longing, it means every type of longing.
It’s stored in a golden vessel in the shape of a cat with sapphire eyes.
It can only be thought of from the inside.
At dusk, it disappears in an explosion of screeching blue light;
that’s why we’re all so sad,
that’s why we stare into empty cups.
You can still find it in a motel room in Wyoming while the TV plays softly,
and you look in the mirror and notice how you’ve changed.