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Saturday, May 13, 2017

well, it ain't melville

Very like a Whale:

I seem to wake
                        and sleep ambiguously,
to see and misconceive,
                        to feel on the brink of something
                                                that doesn’t end, beauty
                                                that is more than beautiful,
                                                meaning that is more.
The present is all around me, dreams,
                        a panoply of crimes, smudges of erasure,
                        memory made of clouds, camels,
                                                weasels and the unlikelihood
                        of somewhere within and beyond this world.
Here’s light,
                        angular, ubiquitous
                                                with the milky pigments of belief.
Here’s plodding time, breathing hard.
                                                Birds fly up, perch on branches,
                        peck seed from the grass, (tug worms from the soil).
I am not what I imagined,
                                                here I am the illusionist
                                                and dupe of my illusions,
                        making the angels disappear, wishing them back again.

Brook Emery.


May 13, 2017 | Permalink


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