The moon looms over fences built to keep us in. The moon looms over fences built to keep us out. A tree grows up through the chain-link. A tree grows up through forgiveness. Bears don’t know the difference between a fish that’s mostly dead and a fish that jumps into a ready mouth. The waters part for a man of God. The waters part for a man with no God. Space may extend forever. Space may extend like a balloon will grow until the pressure blisters rubber into white, into star. Gaseous giants or blackholes. A soul will linger at the horizon. A soul will linger at the horizon and end, not in silence, but in nothing, in never having been. The old men roll up their tomes. Gravity collapses in on itself. The fish swim out to sea. The fish drown in what carries them.
Jake Bailey is a schiZotypal experientialist with work in The American Journal of Poetry, Diode Poetry Journal, Palette Poetry, Tar River Poetry, and elsewhere. Jake received his MFA from Antioch University, Los Angeles. He lives in Illinois with his wife and their three dogs. Find him on Twitter (@SaintJakeowitz) and at saintjakeowitz.xyz.