Gratitudes

I sat again and looked at my feet. The blood had stopped. I had farther to go. 

I slept and dreamed of nothing, but I had wanted to dream of outer space.

As a young girl I watched the stars and always felt I could go there and back. Now I now my feet are much more valuable than those shining lights.

I woke up and shook my heart like a bookcase, the gratitude falling out like many pages of a book, like the cleaning of a canary cage, debris flying everywhere, my gratitude, my gratitude. Falling and landing in space.

Is my gratitude merely platitudes?

It's an armor I started wearing to protect myself from the dark.

I keep seeing those damn lights, though. 

From the Sacred to the Simply Looked At

The sacred art:

the statues that were made by the basket weavers

the pots that were made by the statue-makers

the baskets that were made by the pot people

in the jungle on the plains

these statues came together

covered in semen and blood

they meant something

about the survival against the lions

Now they are in a tourist shop

built out of cardboard 

and I buy it and put it on the shelf

when on vacation.

The sacred writings:

Created in caves by candlelight

in dungeons dug by man

people died carrying the stones

to make this small coffin in the ground

where the monk writes

over and over again

These writings on animal hide

with ink from the eye of the octopus

and fine colors ground from 

the sea shells and the clay

painstakingly applied

with a small brush

made of animal hair

and attached with an animal glue

rabbit or egg

I lost track.

I see the images now

on a computer screen

as I glance for five seconds

before returning

to work and cat videos.

Life will go on

Life will go on

whether you write a poem or not.