529. WITH ALL MY DREAMS IN FLIGHT

WITH ALL MY DREAMS
IN FLIGHT
In the confessional mode I'm at my best -
rushing home to check out the mail,
examining the sky for its passing fleece of
shapes in clouds, or just worrying about the
weather - casting all that as the fading
movie-background of the thing I call a
life. All the items I live to tell about.
I lose nothing in this matter-of-fact deal,
you see - let me tell you that.
Like shredding the fabric of wheat
or like some of my father's old faded
upholstery cuttings - items left over after
death has come and gone...all these
transformed things, yes, they may suffice
but can they make it sensible? All these chance
encounters and the meetings of beings and souls?
Our automatic bodies bob and weave, nod and
function and bend - we are the sum, here, of oh
so many parts. Everything, within a mystery without
a plot, within a puzzle without a solution. In the
confessional mode I'm most comfortable with,
the mystery stays, but it lessens a bit.