Monday, April 29, 2013

Poem from Microscope Man

 
It could also be a return to something simple,
a world of closed loops
where kinks and corners weren't invented,
where animals mixed and organelles
slipped through each other,
eating inside each other
within impossible rooms of gelatin.

Out here, we hold the line
cold and fast. We lock and crimp sharp.
The circle is only an ideal we can't match.
The thought comes up
from the tube of body and brain.

And I want to make vows.
Promises give bones to my ameboid nature,
freeze me into a shape. Keep time from
spreading me.

I can imagine leaning back
into someone I can trust,
someone loyal. I would vow first,
pledge allegiance, then
assume it would forever be
the same and equal, a stasis.

Days would pass and pass,
morning first judgements,
afternoon fulfillments,
evening muddled driftings
and slow, graceful nights.


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