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Poem

Dawn, and the magpies are black and white ink
on a white sky.
All things sign-write and advertise something,
even if that something is to stay away or
I am invisible.

Before I put pants on and wash my face
I have already walked far,
seen the road to its end, travelled beyond,
made choices at forks and junctions.
The town has written its shape in my mind,
I am the map that unrolls it.

 The world stops spinning when we stop turning it.

The magpies are deep in debate
with other birds.  Avian tribes vie to write
in the boldest fonts.

If I do not journey or go out at all,
but stay behind the screen of my thoughts,
moving those thoughts from here to there,
creating new scenarios,
then the world spins on faster and faster.
as I write myself upon its revolving reality.

What if I grow weary
of turning the world around?
Then I could close my eyes and rise to the center
where the stillness is.

All things, birds, and flying dust motes
now will stop writing their names
over and over again.

I may cease reading, stop spinning words,
just watch as the world erase's itself
for one endless moment.

Now I can go somewhere
and not carry the world on my shoulders,

reality may even become
simply space
for magpies to write upon.

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