Gayle Thorsen


This veined map where I sleep,
a long osseous curve
away from true possibility,
wings pinned by my own plans.
Where is the rim of what can be imagined?

Once I sat in a river until I was water,
until it drown my hectic hands
and cleaved my humming skull
so all manner of nativity rained out of me
and I learned the opposite of industry,
to receive nothing.

The holiest space is the emptiest,
hours folding back on themselves like napkins,
shimmering moments spooled out
with no dream of catch,
the wind from opened doors
blowing you into exactly
the arms you need.