The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Bruce Bennett


A snail that makes its sure slow way
persists. It does not need to say:
"My locomotion is okay

For what I do and where I go."
It goes, and does. It isn't "slow."
It has the pace of those who know

Their time's their own, and what they do
is vital, and they'll make it through.
What difference  if their tasks are few,

Their track is humble and unseen?
Their fervor for their life is keen!
They have a bead on what they mean.


If accident denotes an act
that did not have to happen, fact
is accidental, only set
by chance that has not happened yet.

The part of anyone you know
is just a part, and even though
your knowledge of that part may grow,

Or, even possibly, extend
to other parts, still, at the end,
it's partial knowledge you depend

Upon to parse into a whole,
a fiction you assign a role,
imagining you can control

That self-created self, which plays
along—or doesn't—knowing ways
to mask the mystery it stays.

False constructs lead to false conclusions
that lead to greater, worse confusions,
which throw all meaning into doubt
until false constructs sort it out.

Something like Karma makes the only sense.
You live; you die. Yet there is recompense
for how you did it. Something's keeping track.
And, if you're good enough, you don't come back.

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