27 August 2012 § Leave a comment

where is opportunity?
     does it follow its master,
               lead about on a rope
               for passers-by to smile at
                                           or pat on the head
                                           or ask questions about?

      do you hide
               in grandmother’s cupboard
      behind the cornstarch and paprika,
               crumpled and forgotten
            beside the dried mint in a twisted
                                                                 brown-paper bag?

is opportunity
           out at sea?
                   on a small sailing-vessel
                   playing in the rigging,
                           trailing behind into the saltbody,
                   combing with frivolous
                           and invisible fingers
                        the long, stringy, wind-ravished hair
                          of the young wife
                        of the silver-haired, linen-trousered,
                        tanned-wrinkle-squinting tycoon
                   whose heart cannot contain
                   the hurricane of peaceful bliss
                   that is an open ocean?

       is that you hiding
                    behind the soulful eyes of a stranger,
               filling heads with notions,
               giving novelists a firework of inspiration,
            letting the young man hold in his mind
                                             a strength, a woman,
           and the child in her heart
                                             a beauty, untainted hope,
         blooming optimistic into reality of meetings
                     and cups of coffee
                     and the sharing of lemon custards?

      is the curve of an egg in the carton,
           the wind-ripple of a llama’s fancy fur,
    the swells and valleys of the syncopated sine curve
          of music in my life,
                           in my brain;
and the way my questions go unanswered

but i keep breathing, don’t you?
i keep breathing.



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