(no subject)

[proximoception]

A path of dead leaves into a dark, cold pool
Where edgeroots tooth brief caverns where lost fish
Move thoughtlessly and goallessly until
First moonlight like a current grabs each eye.

Deem this life. The dead leaves are the days,
The downward path our bodies' sag to death,
The pool that death itself, the fish the thought
Of what might spark beyond the sog - or not.

Moons come and go and yet there's only one,
The one that's never gone and never here.
Our downward stagger won't stop once begun
But sometimes moon-tuned rays those waters clear,
Sun-rays - in which the deeper sight's undone -
Spun down to trickles on which love can run.

Comments

[proximoception.livejournal.com]

Hope I remember to talk about The Lobster here before I've forgotten it.