Cracking

Some days I think the world is thin,
the sky may crack like blue ceramic glaze—
my skull shattered like a clay pot—
and let in light I’m not prepared to see.
Or underfoot, some flood wells up
hidden rivers suddenly revealed,
strange fish speaking stranger tongues,
white rabbits flushed from holes.

In the green halls of summer, figures move
half-seen, half-human and half-animal,
winding among giant trunks, slipping in and out of shadow.
They’re always near us. Earth, water, air,
half-reveal their secrets—only fire is forthright:
“Touch me and you burn your hand.”

Face the light; your shadow falls behind you.
Revelation stalks at your shoulder, whispering.
Turn the other way and it falls silent,
unhelpful companion, tongueless mimic.
Your shadow dances on the scrim
while behind you, the unseen audience applauds.
The stage trembles underfoot—
you clutch your gilded cardboard crown.

The world breaks open and Something may come in
or you may fall out
and find you were a butterfly, an eagle,
a phoenix in a burning egg,
a dreamer waking to a wider sunrise.