Aug 122011
Is an imaged Word, an imagined Thing
False that falsifies Reality--
Made itself of maybes in our uncertain clime?
A clock of hairs grows boisterous
Upon a curly mantle indifferent to ticks;
Does this winsomeness rescind in a swish
Starker clacks that tap the Reality of Time,
Or 'tis it time t'was taught our make-believe
Before it ever sauntered off the shelf
To drive us will-hee nill-hee over hills
Past our final ploys to final plots
Springing green in Floridian retirement parks? 

How does the poem of apricot, bon mot,
Go on being apricot in a grove of orange?
Is this ripe, particular fiction
Compounded, pat-pat, out of the real?
Oranges or apricots, we ourselves go on
Being our granular, indecisive selves,
Daily twinges of one eternal twang,
Niggling addenda adducing vast impossibilities,
Long after the mirror's form informs each eye
We are not what we were. What can one say
With capable pronunciation? Let huzzahs help
Tortured clocks to tick, apricots to drip
Each imagined day into the reality of night.

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