Monday, December 19, 2016


This life is a passage of some boats
on a river; cresting a bit when the
tide runs its highest at sea. Just a
something, up and down. Like the
Raritan, here in Highland Park, 
where once three thousand native
locals milled around  -  they'd 
move some with seasons, leeward,
or higher ground, or forest. The
riverside rocks, on the southern side,
had caves and cuts with their red
slabs, these were used as often as
could be, but often cut off, as well by
the tidal rise. Higher, in the wooded
lands above, there would be kept 
fires and encampments, along with 
hopes for the warmer days, the return
of leaves and plants, game and creatures,
and hopes for children as well. Everything
always looked ahead. The long line of
Time stared back. From camp to camp,
messages passed. It is all so different now.
When I read about things, there are poets
whose work is reviewed  -  and they are
referred to as 'a poet of the long line.'  
It's so strange. What they mean by that
is a volume or words, a string of 
verbiage which makes a 'long line' 
and nothing about Time at all.

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