ABSTRACT, BUT
NOTHING DIED
The turnstile was the place in the morning from
which I took the faulty scrimmage, the broken
jabberwocky, the entire lost engine. We survived
ice and snow, holding hands like boll weevils on
a slim piece of land. Fires raged, and the horizon
was sunken, made three-dimensional by waves
of rippling heat. I took my turn at the bucket line,
passing nothing but foam and empty water. The
last I knew, they were still paddling forward in
a raging, reverse current. Over there, to my high
left, above the canal waters, the morning star
fiercely shining. And then, in the evening of
the very same day, high to my right, the new
arc of a slightly befuddled Moon. Black night.
Open lands. Deer and wild animals. Everything
seeking shelter from the cold - the cold of
routine and habit and trite old age. I want
nothing more, when I land, than to land with
you at my side...just to be able to say :
'Is this Eternity yet?'
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