Resurrection of Time Now Dead By a Poet Who is Going Blind, #3

RESURRECTION OF TIME NOW DEAD
BY A POET WHO IS GOING BLIND, 3


It is the percussive music of a donkey
stepping on cobblestones
That opens the senses to the awareness
That one’s life is not making sense.
In San Gimignano, outside and down below
The high up window was a stream whose name
I did not know,
Thus I followed the zigzagging flashes
that jump like fishes
Above the twisting surface,
And if I had known the name,
I would have said the name
And not seen the stream.
Ignorance is often salvation, leads
To the discover of bougainvilleas
in vacant lot bogs.
Or the discovery of a man wearing a white cap
Throwing a white stick
to be fetched by a white dog
Running on the wilted grass of a river bank.
The Vernaccia, given to me last night
by a café owner,
Now sits, back lit, on the window sill.
This white wine is a scholar
Who with each sip gives a philosophical lecture
On lost objective and subjective absolutes.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Webspawner