Infinite Unbound Constituents

Inside, there is dreaming,
places where the snow
falls suddenly on the bare
wheat field and piles deep
in the dim morning.

Inside, time moves in strange
arcs, like pendulums swinging
from pendulums, without
any solidity and no recourse
to one single gravitation.

Inside, we are like animals
breaking free of ancient skins
we once wore, like masks hung
on the wall to remind us of
the roads we’ve walked, the
people we’ve been, the
words we’ve coughed out
into the dusty wind.

Inside, unknown elements
combine and recombine, and
we are engines of fusion,
engines of decompression,
engines of unknown alchemy
against the oncoming night
as the universe turns and
turns back, falling in on
itself as over-raised bread
dough does.

Inside, we are empty and dusty,
all solidity a lie, all constancy an
illusion, just dust moats moving
at the brighter corners of a silent
room.

Though, inside, this small galactic
concession to our ego, it feels
good enough, and enough of
things that we deem good to
continue, and humor the
illusion, and be ourselves,
not imploding, not seeing
clear through the shining
verge of afternoon and
into the infinite unbound
constituents therein.