Rob Wilson
THE FLATLANDS
Here and there, this and that, or you and 1-
Where does my mind end and yours begin,
I cannot say this moonlit morning in Honolulu.
You hear these rumors of a flatland
Somewhere in America in the mind,
And you tell me.
A
new
dimension like prairie lowlands
Vaster than the country itself,
But lived in by people like the muse called
Sara with her warehouse eyes.
It's a world elsewhere for sure,
But here, where it has to be-Where?
In
the coffin of the third eye,
In
the stomach like Uranus swallowed
Before and after we were born?
Ushered out of time and place: please,
Not that again, the fool's Arnheim.
I have all I can do to live from day to day
Without fury or neglect kindly in each second,
Without heroic delusions of blasting off
To another mind, never mind to another realm,
Though it sounds more lovely, 0, when you say it.
Should I do penance like they told me
For not taking out the garbage?
Should I cross barbwire to serve her?
Should I do yoga to remember the wordless texts?
Should I live, more simply, like a cow in the grass
Or a bronzed baby in the surf?
These things are unclear to me
This moonlit morning in Honolulu
But I keep on asking about these lowlands
Which you say are near and true.
