It’s easy for me to be alone, a natural thing, as inevitable as a stream in its bed, first the stream, then the bed, and then the other way around, each by and for the other. And when, after its long descent, a leaf falls in, and that leaf is you, that too is a natural thing, and for a time we are mirrors.
Stream of Consciousness
He didn’t expect the bubbles to look like eyes, or to feel his heart breaking when one he’d been watching as it drifted along burst as it was passing over a rock. Neither did he expect the rock to care, or even notice, but it did, and in a colossal effort it dragged itself out of the water and died on the bank. In anguish, the entire current went rushing into the hole where the rock had been and disappeared. As the sandy bed beyond dried in the afternoon sun, there arose a great cry: “I’m blind, I’m blind, I’m blind . . . ”
Poems, Slightly Used, January 18, 2009
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Categories: Poems, Slightly Used