… your eyes.

By J. K. McDowell

June 2013

 

I cannot quote the Latin, there is no escaping

The “tears in things.”  Yet I ponder and piddle

In the small spaces pretending safe in this storm.

 

The butterflies flee from his beard.  I follow

Whitman as the colored wing beats led us to

Your unmarked grave.  This was a trip that we had to make.

 

Thrown into the middle of things I draw patterns

In the sand.   Everywhere a stranger, yet at ease.

A seer of all nightmares and of all dreams.

 

So this is this is the hand I am dealt, chasing

The phantom of my future self.  Slices of

Reality shuffle in her well-manicured fingers.

 

Jim, you were not there when the ants, scorpions,

Birds and many unseen things took turns picking

Through their favorite delights.  This was my passing.

 

The Inner and Outer and Other Worlds touch

The tears that flow from seeing the beautiful

Intersections of grief and joy.  Open your eyes.

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