This is the truth as I know it:
I fear that if I move
the lid on this box I've
been sitting on
for thirty years or so
will blow
off and God only knows
what will happen then.

It seems I get bigger, wider
as the years pass
the better to keep
the box shut tight,
shut off from peeking,
from air and light.

I've heard it described as
petalled, sacrum,
the ground of being,
root.

It seethes, like a
piranha infested river,
living water stained
bed sheet red.

This is the truth as I know it:
I fear that if I do not move
the lid of this box I've been sitting on
for thirty years or so
will blow
and I will fall and fall into its
Amazonian seething.

RGS
03.26.06

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