THINGS GO

 

All sorts,

dregs flushed into air,

the stare of stares

that scatters and absorbs.

All sorts, choose some,

pens, keys, socks…socks,

often one of the pair goes first

leaving the other inert,

another puzzle at hand

in the meaningless universe.

And forks, knives, napkins, cups,

the saucers stay a little longer

in questioning rotundity.

And books and magazines and papers,

papers are the quickest

because they can find chinks

in the myriads of folds of the world

and vanish in a swish.

 

All sorts,

dot after dot.

And the mind, the mind.

Frayed wires in a jumble

trying, in their decline,

to arrange a sense

but giving up sooner or later,

gazing only at the boat

in the current’s arabesques,

oars abandoned.

 

We often leave

before leaving,

when we stop caring

about keys

and close ourselves

in or out.

 

Or get flushed and lost in words

as in echoes of swords

until we forget both them and us.

We just might utter a truth,

or so we reckon,

some seconds before,

in a lion’s roar.

 

Dot after dot.

How wide the sky.