Between fact and fantasy, life and death,
A rickety little bridge of donkeys
Who eye me in the morning as I pass
Through Pocketville on a drive to the Park,
Is all the mnemonic necessary
To remind me we’re all our worlds at once.
They’re not enough, but there aren’t any more.
It’s at this point they usually begin
To compose, to coagulate, to knot
Waves in the stream surrounding consciousness.
It’s really all small worlds at once, our thoughts,
Inherited languages, our senses,
The mix of old and recent memories.
Stones tumble and chunk together in mind,
Drawn down by the constant stream of going,
And there you have it, a moment, a bridge
That’s also an obstacle and a dam,
Temporary obstruction in the stream.
The donkeys start to cross over, then stand,
Mulishly, waves foaming over cold feet.
Friday, May 21, 2021
Poetry, Pons Asinorum
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21 May 21
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