Poetry

Arrow – Poem

The curse of the uncollected, sheep on
the south side of the unmended fence,
keepers of car leases, Tillandsias
and tadpoles, when did they hide
–in the future
the seed of the past–
foregoing the present as a time
for trust?  Seven students I’ve
cupped into my heart are
awaiting baking hour.  I am
Wendy walking the ledge, neither
child nor adult.  This lion
pride is borrowed.  Sorted for storage,
my days are a ziplocked miniature–
a blur of the daredevil
life I scribe.  Here are the ladies from
sewing circle, here the babes of
burlesque.                      Tomorrow
I take the 101 past the Golden
Gate, to where we’ve kept my father’s
ashes, and I will argue
to keep them together.
Don’t part the particles!
Those left alive will laugh, and
Let Go! they’ll shout.
But a man who,
like me, lived plural and
scattered, lost in the scrutiny
of his own eyes deserves
at last, relief from the
long distance affair with existence.
An indecisive apple, invitation
written, tell William Tell,
shoot if you get here.

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