…possibility used to be my reality

I have come to realise
that even the self
is a circle, really, going
around and holding hands
like we used to once
upon a time in possibility.

In the glass that sense of
an other, it’s no joke, and it’s
not because you’re drunk or
afraid, or sadder than
you’ve ever been
before. It’s because you’re
full, all of you, fuller than you
ever thought possible, and the walls
are written, all of theirs too, fallen
but carefully worded, spherical
and senile all at once, all the same.