I was standing in that
beauty they speak of

and I took it just the way
it took me in,
until I wasn't sure
it was beautiful
at all,

but seemed to know
what was important
and how to find it

most likely
because I brought it with me.

(though I'm not sure
if I had learned that from
my mother
or the poetic
ramblings of Ginsberg.

probably my mother,
but nonetheless)

I was dragging
my feet in circles scattered wide
around me,

trying to own
my own somewhere,
or create a place where
my shadow could never be framed
by the sun and arrested
for trespassing.

cutting out a portion
of deserted landscape
where I could shout
stories that would
never return.

I was carving
the boundaries
in trustworthy dirt,

and pondering an appropriate
price for corn, and rent,

(the trees weren't in
the way yet,
but I hadn't considered
building statues
of myself.)

when I decided that
this was how everything
I hate was born.

there was so much
more room
for doubt in the wilderness
than in the cities
I'd long since
escaped,

and just
as much
room
for everything
else.