the theory of forms

my soul perched
at the top of a steep white hill,
looking at once in all directions
at infinite cloudy crystals
of moments surrounding it,
each influencing each other,
never close enough to touch.

comfortably
it rocked back and forth,
not knowing which direction came first,
not knowing how fast it moved
until the wind blew

a little too sharply,
and suddenly it was swaying
too rapidly,
but didn't understand what that meant,
and the crystals started moving,
lining up in space—
some very close,
many farther and farther away—
till it could only see
what was right below it,

and the white hill
began to avalanche,
and my soul fell
into the nearest crystal,
floating in line
through the clouds
in succession, one by one,
only remembering
where it had been before,
scared of what was yet to come,
scared of what it used to know.