Into It, Out of It
Into it
and out of it
like a bird flying
And the wind the wind
swiftly blowing
And the rain the rain
slowly pelting
And the footsteps the footsteps
noiselessly groping
toward the which and the when
that are heedlessly hoping.
Wings
Astonishment flies
going beyond the eyes.
It has wings
to encircle a nowhere that bewilders
the very “I” that wishes to let go.
I open my eyes to a cloud
that whispers and focuses me
yet quickly escapes my vision.
Is it I? Is it ego?
The question remains
even as a bird has wings;
wings that fly.
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