Thursday, March 10, 2011


Foraging beneath that layer of dark
mysterious leaves my life has become
for me, an unrecognizable series
of encounters, places, dutiful acts
—a question, mainly, of scheduling—i find
the rich soil of my own imagination,
the mulch of my refusal, my Bartleby-
face, a kind of pitiful liberty
staring obliquely back at me
and wonder if others are able to see
the ironic smile that some priest or other, some
secular undertaker perhaps, had thought
to have buried forever,
                                    torn asunder.


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