Alone, we’re self-nesting in the hollowness of the soul’s tree
where roots dare not entangle strangers:
a die with sides of theoretical danger
and potential kinship; Whichever lands up—
changes where life’s dominos fall,
collapsing imagined universes in a design to actualize
just one. Could be a shared bed on Sunday in utter idleness,
or homework-aid in comfortable silence,
or a dysfunctional marriage with a troubled kid in between,
leading to divorce at forty.
Never mind the gamble! Follow the BluJay,
through the tree-hollow to the selfishness’ parade,
celebrating privacy, in the trunk’s inner spaciousness:
a world of hanging blankets
where one’s flashlight illuminates games and books;
And then gather beginnings that have withered before blossoming
and piece them together to build a nest inside oneself.
The internalizing Rubik’s cube rearranges our personal colors
into a pleasing uniform,