We know ourselves
when the brightness
of the dark is ever here
in my heart.

You knew behind lanes 
led avenues of bulky tractors,
perfect squares of elusive-
a staple we all eat.

I knew the perfect hems,
as everything is connected
by threads of my fingers;
and knowing is certain,
certain I know the ways
earned one at a time;
and careful,
behind any great feeling
is payment,
is the gap 
and the collector.

There's a sign 
and there's a door-
Not knowing isn't the worse;
for within every messily pat,
the knowing glance and
a back he can see so well,
perhaps it's a flaw 
so deep
that I can't see me.

To be born to a castle;
a thread-bare robe 
and the hardness
of the breeze 
and knowing a meal
is exact in the spin...

torrents fall,
and stone archways protect
me,
alittle more;
a lucency can guide
and you see why...

light is bleach
and it burns
the impure,
even me.