Wishing Well for Many Worlds
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.