Good and gone

I became friends with
myself again
yesterday.
Ignored the clicks, the cracks
and the spasms
of furniture
molecules breathing,
of the window pane reacting
to Celsius' drop.

I dropped the dice
and threw myself out of
myself

to become me
in search for a wonder
that can heal wounds of ghosts.

Those who are dead
I can but do not dare

speak to.

Those alive, I believe,
are unable to under

stand

me and myself
in conflict for voice
or in love with silence.

The anti-enactment I procure
turns on as noise

verbing or unverbing
the ping pong of nothing..

Explain what you cannot explain.
Done. Now where can I find liberation?

On a snow flake, maybe.