Here is the truth: There is a little grain of it in everything.

The fifth time you travel to the end of the world, you peer over the edge and know
This. Probably when the fortune teller announced your destination, she had
Meant it as a metaphor, a quick way to pay for take-out, thumbing through
The grocery list, typing a break-up text — your import only fringe.

You have always been too literal. You wanted a life without
Mirrors and the edge is where you find the lack of them. The space
Beyond is milk-white, black as pitch, as stabled horses, and
Hadn’t you waited and waited? Hadn’t your mouth gone

Slack with disappointment each time you turned a bend
Only to find a puddle, river-clean glass?
The world ends where you say so. This is the
Fifth assertion, but this is truest;

No traffic crawling, no bent trees,
All just you: Hands feet eyes, heart,
Stupid heart. Beating heart
Step into nothing:

Fleeting mumbles
Turn to still-
Ness, still,
Still