Wishing Well for Many Worlds

*For Myself

 

When one fountain stagnates, another’s still

flowing elsewhere, the same as when someone

is steeping down into sleep, another

has reached the denouement of jungled dream.

Worlds without number wait for you. They wait

for you to cast your copper coins, lightly

letting a desire accompany those

faces worn down by opposable thumbs.

 

Whether granted or not, the mystery

is in the act done. And the mystery

ascends to the fountain’s surface tension

to become you, phase you, as only one’s

own face can phase, until interrupted

by the radiation of incensed calm.