If I dash out of my room
towards the unrolling infinities,
plum gardens in persistent bloom,
sperm whales inscribed with Coptic words
and peach stones bursting in the skies,
dropping as flowers on the working loom –
I will not be aware of these infinities
if I still carry within me this room.
But if I reach, without flying anywhere,
the silken way bestrewn with budding birds,
the unfastening rolls of morning air,
the blaze of grasshopper's momentary wings
and their trill echoing under the rain-woven dome,
then I may stay in my room,
for leaving it will not make any difference.
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