I open it, and it goes on and on and on and on and on forever.
An infinity of poems.
A lighthouse.
A tower, and a rounding out
of majesty. A sheer flurry of activity
that begs the question
what is reality actually about?
What is a poem
except read aloud
in your head,
and dappled in the sunlit colours
of the Metamorphoses, the Odyssey,
the Lusiads?
Surely things after a while
would all come
to an end.
Surely the lies, after a while,
would all regress and fail. Surely you could not pretend
forever,
that Columbia was Infinite.
But that's what the particles are for.
That's what you choose, when you finally open the Universe's great door
and leap in.
That's what you lose,
when you finally take the next step forward,
and whether as man or woman or both,
begin.
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