Friday, September 28, 2018

Poem Without Pronouns

How is the soul, come
Fine afternoon? How
Can the cognitive system
Connect the felt but unseen

Movements of the self
With the seen, unfelt
Movements of the cosmic else?

Even self observation
Can fail at imitation.
The mist on the horizon,

Proper and common,
Would wish to collapse
Into the name of a hope
Replacing the horizon.

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