I have walked now for days on end
with my eyes closed, thoughts
centered at the point of my
nose as I imagine a cat's
to be, drawn wink by sleepy
wink forward from the brain
until the inner resources
are pruned purple into a pure
moment of insignificance. I
walk this way because I see
better with my eyes shut, or
almost shut like the outline
of mascara on a Chinese doll.

I see before me a country lane
of Michaelmas daisies and
tawny goldenrod rounding
the lake to a beach of black
smooth rocks—I am in
Finland, or some inner landscape—

not the underground of last night.
Here is clean air and the sound
of water falling over mineral
shelves to clean streams below
the streets of my thoughts. Is
this a purple carpet I step on?