sometimes i grow worried

that your mind,

a athenaeum with

a dome painted samba and wiley 

and walls illustrated basquiat, catlett, aboudia,

brimming with ever-expanding

with essays and fictions

and cinema and philosophy 

by the greats and by you lining its shelves,

is so grandiose,

so extensive,

that it is bound to collapse 

in on itself someday.