abba is perfect
everytime
(and i don’t mean god)
(and I don’t mean papa)
it sings a sadness
that makes me feel
that makes me see

and that
is miracle enough
for unfeeling me

it’s a dark hand
that reaches for my throat
to destroy every good thing
and i can only watch it
wrapping its fingers around the sun
and throttling the light away

is it freeing?
is it weightless?
to know that against the infinite
my measure is nothing?

that i am not really here,
and never was,
and never will be?

i am a dream of the sleeping universe
lost upon awakening
despite a grasping at faint and fading,
less than a spirit
haunting an empty house

if there is nothing,
there is nothing to fear,
and i fear nothing.

i am in the back seat
i am five
and i am quiet
a listener
while my mind drifts
in a silent not unpleasant fog

i am in the back seat
i am 18
and i am quiet
a wonderer
dreaming of the world
while it races past
fast forward

i am in the back seat
i am 35
and i am quiet
leaning face against window
amazed by snow and my face
melting into the ice
leaving an impression

i am in the back seat
i am 51
and i am quiet
puzzling at changes in my self
and the startling sameness within
as if i have always been here

i am five
i am 18
i am 35
i am 51

i am all these ages
and i am none
all at once
my ghost adds to itself
while my machine runs down
but my small voice is unchanged
quiet in the backseat
in wonder at the passing world
yearning for a reaching branch
that i might climb into the dark and sacred branches
of a living tree
or a dying tree
to become whatever i might be next