It turns out that speed

can become intelligence

if you’re fast enough.

If you run between

clay walls carved with every word

of the language of

your maternal tongue,

from the corner of your eyes

picking sentences

that ought to convey,

instead of some absurd play

where you fill the gaps

with your worse nightmare,

a sensitive and heartfelt

version of yourself,

a kind of hero

now laying the foundation

like a garden path

to nothing but light,

the Stockholm syndrome long shed

in some ornate bath.

To let go of doubt

or thoughts of an afterlife,

the worse of them lies,

mirror by mirror,

to build with haste and courage

loving human ties.

jam23