I WONDER WHERE
I WISH TO
BE
I don't know the time, and long ago forgot the
day - things pass like that, they pass away.
That sound I hear in the morning air - the same
people going off to work : the guy in the gray car
with the bike rack on the back, The woman, always
with a bag of food. It all means little to me, less at
least than I can see. I meander instead, to watch the
sun hit the Prospect House trees, the garbled patch
of water and Summer flowers spewing everywhere.
-
Here's a nickel, take a dime : I hear the old church
on the Limetop corner running its morning bells again;
as if this was some medieval town, I'm supposed to
note the time and give my reverence up to that church's
moment. How foul : they do not know I already do so,
in my way, long before and without them. Hubris like
that
should be buried in the churchyard they run; a sick
graveyard of trimmed trees and dried, parched grass.
-
I can wrestle sin and time, temperance and crime, or
any old vice at all, here there and everywhere, and
any old time as well. I am King of my stupid matter.
The fence-gate is yet open, nothing leaves, but
then again nothing enters either. What great Duality
presents itself to me? I wonder where I wish to be.
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