July 07, 2005

Not Knowing Will Do

The hand falls short of what it is pointing to,
a word somehow misses the soft target;
who one is on one edge,
and what one made on the other;
there are two places to be at the same time,
one puts another before oneself,
in these acts we see another left behind.

I am thinking of what to do while not doing anything.

This afternoon, blank screams of joyful teenagers echo
across campus, through the windows, I listen to them--
from a distance their sound is fainter than the taste of barley tea
or the smells of the playground in fourth grade--
spilt nacho sauce baked into my navy blue corduroys,
the water fountain's metalic-tasting water,
woodchips, buttercups, and pussy willows;

I follow and you come back, you move on and I follow.


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