Off of My Chest

Planck length sums of thoughts slip past
The gates of the signs I shrink
As small as I can make them

And are gone. I want those thoughts
Back. I need them back. They catch
What words are too vast to catch,

Names too full of gaps. The sieve
With mesh so fine no thought’s egg
Could drift through like a curled doll

Built to bank a thing that means,
A sphere, a jot, a pearl dot—
That’s the weir I want to weave.

You think the large thoughts, the news,
The new mean the most to you?
If you could see what I’ve hatched,

What swims through these lines, these wrecks
Furred in fronds and moss that net
Things I get off of my chest.