A Starting Point

The thing is 
	to know like Fabian 
when to start --  
		as I made to leave, 
		opening the car door, 
		an inner sense told me --  
	I moved to kiss her, 
		and it was sweet 
				and captivating, 
and I haven't been myself sense. 

I am not sure when it became an issue. 

I was of three minds, 
like a tree 
in which there are three blackbirds. 

Are we not, are we not 
		all this dust? 

I am not sure. 

What is this mass, 
	if it is not an equation 
somewhere 
	on a physicist's white board --  
a (convulsion) of force, 
	a solution of atoms, 
	a conflux of energy, 
	a reservoir of being? 
But I am not sure. 

and that one does not kill 

and that one does not kill 

And I am not sure 
	that if one is a field of wheat, 
		as Jorie Graham was/is/could be 
			in "Underneath" 
	succumbing to the birdcalls, 
	to the motions of the wind 
				(the wind's hands), 
that one is particulate matter 
	that one is: atoms 
I am not sure that I am made 
	of uncuttable matter --  
I am not sure I agree with Leucippus 
	and Democritus --  
for even atoms can be split, 
		even atoms of atoms 
			whirl and dance 
					in a dervish way --  
so fast, 
	no one sees them spin 

What is the quanta, the least unit of light --  
	how much quanta does my vessel hold? 
	how much quanta is my being? 

"In starting any thesis, it seems to me, 
one should put forward 
at one's point of departure 
something incontrivertible; 
the expression should be simple and dignified." 

And I am not sure 
	of this being, 
of what it means to "be" --  
	to grunt and swear under a weary life? 

but I am several minds on this too 
	like different phases of the moon --  

Before I kissed her, what was I --  
	a rational man? 
	a scientist? 
	a homeostatic mass of 
			bones, bread, and neurons? 
and now, the battle engaged, 
what are these thoughts, 
	where do they fly from, 
is not this flesh the same 
		are these thoughts products 
	of genetic design 
the design to copulate 
	to savor 
	to kiss 
	to look into her eyes 
	to go down to the river 
	again and again and again 

Man is such a mass of carnal flesh --  

and I find sex to be interesting, fascinating --  
and then it's -- well, I could be doing 
	something else --  
life is too short, life is too short. 

and I am not sure I can split this 
	segregate this 
discriminate amongst feelings. 

If, after kissing me, 
	she is a field of wheat 
	caressed by the wind, 
	would she tell me? 
	could she tell me? 

And what if all I sense is atoms 
what if my flesh dissolves into the ether 
what if I lose my be-ing? 

The river is moving. 
The blackbird must be flying. 

The thing is to wait --  
let the armies of the Carthagenians 
	weary themselves 
in the long pursuit of their enemies --  
strike when they are easy prey --  

The thing is 
	to wait --  
what if 
	there is no universal matter 
	if I can be cut, will I bleed, 
	can my cuts be cut 
what if all we are is Void --  
	empty spaces 
	empty spaces 
	empty spaces 

And that could be 
	the paradox of the universe --  
even if quanta have no matter --  
for matter has no space, 
	only energy 
and a Void 
		with mathematics inside. 

How can this being be cut? 
Where do these different desires reside? 

I will till the earth 
	and gardens of joy 
	will spring from my tears --  
so long, so long 
	have I wandered naked, 
		never fully grown. 

I am a black bird, 
		a bird of wisdom, 
and once my wings were white --  
whiter even than snow 

I am not a ghost 
I am a ghost intombed in matter --  

It is time to kiss 
	and kiss again, 
and to share of myself. 
It is time. 

where the raven suddenly wetly and rawly 
roughens the low vacillations of various windsweeping 

and I will be of several minds 
on this too.