Sunday, November 3, 2013

There is the Wear (Susan Lewis)

of thought that cuts & floats without blight or bile. There is the fine particularity of subatomic particles. There is the clouds’ rosy hole through which creation peeks, then beckons, then retreats. As for the frantic lives of animals & plants, the faux stillness of minerals, the bell curve of phase change — I am confident in osmosis, both cognitive & saline. I am certain of limits, as limitations litter my fear, like plastic isles in a hapless green sea. You swallow animal, mineral, & vegetal. Twenty questions bare identities not yours, which slips & slides from my desire like false advertising, false promise, or truthful testimony. In the world of bats, dinner is charted geometrically. In the world of foresight, death has long tentacles, prying backwards, spoiling some moments, enhancing others. To regret sentience is to be ready for the next brutal blessing.

This is one of a new batch of prose poems which I am accruing in layers to populate a new collection.  It was born in the mountains, during a particularly gaudy sunset, decked out in late summer colors but carrying with it the chill of the changing season. I scribbled in the dwindling light, while the first bats swooped by in near-silence, hunting for dinner.

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