Now:
Mine is the culture of Now
“Stop that this instant”:
And we wait.
I continue
My imperfect search for perfection
I pause,
Fascinated by what was, what could be.
Teach me these histories,
Now.
Waiting, waiting,
My small tired scratching
On pages of soft pulp
White, inner birch
That grows in this forest of words.
July 26, 2007
Then
The day is sun-tan sticky hot
Wavering across--
Gathering under the eaves
Coming to wash my skin
And run its fingers through my hair
I lift my lip to let it kiss
My parched throat
And think
Of how cool water looks
Under the trees.
In summer-heated hay
I smell the thunder
And run from shelter
To cover my skin with beaded glass
--
Later
Would I Mind Less
If Reality
Weren’t so slippery?
I need to take a breath
To catch my thoughts at work
Like guilty imps
Fingers coveting
No comments:
Post a Comment