Stampedes, and the Envelopes by Which You Arrived

I saw the bottom of the ocean

in your eyes,

it was cold, dark,

and crawling with fish

shaped like envelopes,

filled with deep secrets

tucked into their folds

like two-dollar pony bets.

 

Envelopes dying to escape,

swimming, swimming

in perfect right triangles,

trying to reach the surface

for a breath of air,

earnestly awaiting a hero,

a treasure hunter,

a single, solitary

envelope knife,

to bleed them into papercut freedom,

give them polygonal wings,

to fly out of the depths of your eyes.

 

And their secrets would become

useless, free,

historical things,

in the glossaries of homeroom textbooks.

 

Then,

then you would see

that true joy is not bred

in definition,

it cannot be kept like a caged animal.

 

But that it is born out of impulse,

in once in a lifetime constellations,

projected by a clear, moonlit sky

at midnight,

with wild horses stampeding

all around you.