Room 199

May 14, 2017

Is this then life
(not even geneses were dreamt),
soil underfoot, overhead sun?
What is the grass, might then be ask’d
but I shall not be pastoral
as my grass is just shrubbery:
thick weeds growing along a yard,
clovers in a modest garden


standing there
(Grab the daisy! but I do not move),
I know I’m solid and sound, deathless
– interference in waveform, moiré
on a bubble? Maybe: yet I am time
and matter and my bare feet pillars
& compass;
my spirit needs no vindication
my mother’s shadow’s but a sundial
and grass-spiders crawling all about
the control lights of earth’s intention.

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