PARABOLIC ARC
There's a time to come forth and rally.
Stepping forward, to bring the right forms
out - I know these shadows are strangers,
like names on a train, faces in a crowd, things
so easily forgotten. We mark these as the marks
of love? Here, I am trapped in a lounging of my
own time's making - a certain composure I cannot
see, just feel. My heart, never wounded, runs out its
clock : finding here and there something special for which
to stop but going on no matter, never mind, unmindful of
any of that. For to live is but to continue; even when the
picking is right, the flowers, oh never, somehow, cannot
be touched at all, and distance is the parabolic arc so tall.
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