I keep myself in

a notebook under my bed.

I think in

song.

I dream in

poems.

I believe in incohesive pictures

flashing a mile per minute.

Like speeding cars on a highway,

bits of me dash past

in a cacaphonic blur of ineffable

me.

But with all of them racing

acroos the night, it tunrs

into a graceful blurr of light and sound

color. And the dents

in the bumpers, the scratches

on the windsheilds

the cracks in the prisitne visage

disappear.

And all we know

is this incomprehensible happening

that I cluth to my heart

as I'm swept off my feet.