Saturday, May 14, 2011

The Night's Poem So Far

Prescient and
parlous and the only
word left in a pocket
after a long hot
day is “pointillist,”
for the world we see,
through our eyes,
is an array of dots,
their colors various
and varying, and
it is difference that
gives the world
any shape, enough
so we think we are
somewhere and
something, oh,
what do you see
out your window
on a foggy morning
that you cannot
smell with your
tongue as the
slightest tinge of
asparagus coming
at you as the color
green? and it is so
and therefore that
we leap into daylight
anxious for the
blooming it will
bring us as it brings
us to, for we sleep
through much of
being, whether
awake or truly
sleeping, the world
is but a place
that moves through
us as we sit, silent,
waiting for some
thing to make us
move, or breathe,
or give back to this
overwhelming sense
of urgency the only
breath of the body,
for to live, and

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