Aug 212011
 
The patient good of going nowhere
In the balloon of the mind

(That something, half air, half real)
Is, I declare, a laudable poem

In the tone of time (that somewhen
Of buzzing was and will-be).

To live in circles, going nowhere
In a clime that is timeless. . . .

This circuitous circumlocution
Of life, is life.

And the poem of life is patient, good,
And of articulate merit

Like a muffled chime;  the poem,
Disturbed by chilly ripples from the mind,

Hushes the shivering cymbal.
Hush, hush, between heart and thumb

Into a silence not yet manifest.  And yet. . . .
There's a music there, too, a stubborn thrub.

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