Exhausted, for some reason. So, another poem from about 15 years ago – See category “poem” for a couple more.
These poems I came across from cleaning up are almost like from someone else. Almost embarrassing in a way.
Written pretty much stream of consciousness followed by a few tweaks, I remember.
I can’t remember my circumstances or what I was thinking at the time – even reading and re-typing it hardly brings up any memory or refracted thoughts. Maybe it was about imagining reciprocation from the world of the word, characters seeing me as a ‘two dimensional’ character, and assuming I am one.
Again, here I circle back to my frustration with “story”.
The ripe shape of these lives
the warm bursting of these lovely people
Now battered down
like papery pressed leaves
by the Act of Imagination
Into ‘two-dimensional characters’
fictions to flick away
with the flip of a page
to make disappear
with the shutting of a cover
and a twist to reach over your side
to turn out the light
so even their shadows disappear
as if you can choose them there or not
and if you decide to hold them
of a dream
is all you might have
But in the world that is true and ripe
these lovely people are shining
rolling laughing singing
and when they think about you
if they think about you
a shadow might cross their own faces
and they might even lean over
and ask me
how you are doing