World Poetry Day: high nothing


high nothing

 awed small by mountain peaks
we find ourselves, or rather
we discover what is left
when we take a chisel
to our own façade
and chip away.

not the creature we carefully
curate (and learn to believe
in), but what is left

when we are alone, standing
on a shelf in the sky,

touching fear with our fingertips,
breathing unshared air,
senses shrilling over
bare, sharp rock

that promises to tear
brash skin: a casual tiger
bothered by a moth.

it is impossible to be anywhere
else: there is no future,
no past to dream of, or regret.
just this still moment and
the keen ecstasy in knowing:

'i am nothing'


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