Thursday, April 23, 2020

The Clearest Mirror

We each have our wholly insufficient
Routines which we believe in
Which we believe confirm us
By means of which we steer our stumbling
Ways through each succeeding day

Like rose or friend in a forgotten rhyme
Deer and elk on the blue mesa at dawn
The funny sort-of gnome who hopped
From around the bend where I sat watching
Touched a crooked index finger to his nose

And intoned—if right this moment I drop
Dead I will secure my reputation as the very
Least known of all the greats and greatest
Of all the unknowns—he spooked the deer
But the elk in their routines ignored him

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