I Walk Into Things

I walk into things: this welt reddening my forehead
is from a kitchen cabinet. Sometimes the door swings
out at me like a warhead—a sour breath seems to open it—
and I walk into things.

I’ve hurt things, especially in the night.
Maybe a pinkie toe, but the thing stings
like a Jurassic insect bite.
Sometimes an elbow. I walk into things.

I’ve bruised things, yeah, even this heart, I guess—
walking into things, falling headlong—
sometimes confused things—been none too smart, I guess—
some things got said wrong—
some things we balked at talking through, and they got read wrong—
I played my part, I guess—
I bruised yours too, I guess.

For love of our world of things, the bones callus their bruises;
the heart shrugs off its qualms.
For what else the night brings, I choose to risk some harm.
When the stars flutter their wings,
and desire blows its fuses, and the dark throws wide its arms,
I say, Walk into things.
Let’s, us, walk into things.