I’ve imagined all this,
one reality as real as any other.
I’ve been strolling in the mind’s bestiary,
thoughtfulness sawing its green lumber.
I’m on a newly discovered planet.
I’m a simile or silly allegory.
A gargoyle in a cathedral.
A fist through a pane of tinted glass.
Already I’ve died a thousand nights
and have crowned myself king of the gnats.
In my mind is a creamer of magical water.
I’ve put myself before all others.
Why write of the real world,
its stems and stoves and fishes?
When I can live on the sun instead
and carry cities in my bloodstream.
I can paint the invisible.
Invent new numbers.
Marry the cutest little Neanderthal.
Or better yet, I could start life over,
taking a step back from myself
as one would when returning to Earth
after light-years of interstellar wandering.
I could make the same mistakes again
and not come to regret them.
About Bruce McRae
