April 12, 2005
I've lost too many connections; my soul,
the part of the mind that burns,
is in mourning; it thirsts
for the return of my gone others
the way a pool in the North waits
for birds, after new green buds
remind her of them. A still pond,
yes, and yet beneath the still, see
how the reeds grow,
how the sands lie, just so?
(It never would have been
I've missed too many connections; should be
five transefers along by now, but truth is
I stumbled somehow on the lip
of the cradle, have merely crawled
along since. I shoulder too many anxieties,
and they make lousy passengers:
heavy as children and sore as lice.
I could count my burdens forever
and never be done.
(Though in truth, damn the Trickster,
there's really just one.)
I have too many heads,
and each one is far too
certain of itself; the calamity,
understand, occurs in their inability
to reconcile differences.
(Please understand that
there is one of them laughing.)
Anyone want to go for coffee? I have a Seattle hangover.
FYI: this poem is tongue in cheek. Remember Prufrock?
Image: "T.S. Elliot Forgets His Keys," by M.E.
April (is the cruelest month!) 2000.
Posted by delire at April 12, 2005 11:45 AM