I read of a competitive lumberjack who said,
Of a fall from a tree, "The only way I knew I wasn’t dead
Was when I heard a lady in the audience yell, ‘I think he’s dead.’"
Recent mornings, sometimes, I first realized I was still alive myself
When an unlocatable voice in my head uttered some similar cry.
Then there they were, in the clear dark, the usual bright stars,
Offering their usual absence of commentary on our lives.
Thus things continued, typical rituals typically executed, which meant
No execution yet. Bizarrely over-confident and cheerful,
Body's innate response to a fine day in the sun couldn't be
Overcome. I had no good idea how many times beforehand
I had sat in the same position, more or less, more or less
The same body, in the same little city's same park, more or less,
Eating my lunch and thinking this world might yet turn out to be
Something I could seize, as if a dreamy nonsense quest could go on
All day and night, no fall at all. It could you know, and it just might.
No comments:
Post a Comment