Friday, May 21, 2021

Poetry, Pons Asinorum

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.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.