I’d tear this poem into shreds, minute,
into wild blossoms but not pluck even one
let them ripen for you, into fruit,
and then the fall, decay and its lesson.
I’d tear this poem into a rough sea,
and pick a wave of it to make a raft,
tear it into whatever needs to be
for you to steer and learn the sailor’s craft.
And I’d rip it into a darkened sky
where no sun nor moon not even a pole star
shone out to reassure, you’ll find yourself by
guiding yourself alone to what you are.
And when the trip’s done, you’ve reached the shore, then
I’d piece the million pieces back again.