The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Paul Nelson
I’ve Never Dug
black holes . . . men pursuing,
with fine instruments, things so small, so compacted they outweigh any galaxy, yet get cornered as points, unconcerned spots on an x-ray, or mathematical places (hence true) . . . so I revere air, even thin, between objects, having come up short at times, and then there’s light, so much of it, half my life, defining, closing and opening light years between toys named in passing: Luna, Venus, the Pleides, Halley’s, Ursas, Betelgeuse . . . as if they were islands, buoys, loves, convenient markers for drifting, anchors for tethering dangers best left sacred, mysterious, daft considering the gravity beyond the acres I ponder, have mown, and the site where my last dog pawed leaves and laid down to die in the shade by himself, under the Gravenstein where I dug his grave framed by the window beside my rocker by the small wood fire, the hot pipe that sucks dreams up the cosmic flue, while I sit breathing, just breathing. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |