Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Poems about nothing. Number 1

These are filaments of light
or perhaps plant tissue
or flesh--cellular rods that grow
in memory at least and defy all

definition all attention all description.
Even here, even in the cracks
and the darkness before
the waiting ends they grow

like this, even flourish after
a fashion. They grow
with vigour and urgency, even
performing under these conditions

the stark acts of mating
or propagation, whichever it is,
however it can be described.
These filaments will never

swell into redwoods, or giants
who stalk the earth into myth
or shock their way into dreams
but even here, even here

is a life attempted. Even here
is a sort of brazenness that we
can admire, begin to know,
and reach towards.

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