Words and
syllables leech into the universe
through the event horizon spinning in my
brain,
a point with no location or mass, no
Newtonian coordinates.
The lines come from a muse hiding in an
alternate reality,
a poet squared uttering images into a
wormhole,
ideas to be translated by a tongue wagging
in the Milky Way.
A man and a woman walk along a shaded path
before making love in a sun-dappled green
field.
A steady rain washes them like quicksilver
into the next stanza,
where they exchange letters, each writing
on a different continent
because of infidelity, duty, war, or an
uncommon plague.
A man eating a vendor’s pretzel stands on
a New York street corner.
He once owned a sunny field where he found two lovers,
naked and alone and kissing after walking
along a shaded path.
He has just left his employ—stamping
postmarks on letters
written by a man in New York and a woman
in Rome.
The content of these missives from the
heart remains a mystery,
for in that other world, where the higher
poet lives,
the quantum bard has taken a break to eat
tea and toast and jam.
I am a humble scribe fencing pictures
from the pregnant void,
but today I dare to disturb a universe
poised on the edge of a daffodil.
The man and the woman reunite and once
again make love,
and it is their child who has taken the
time to write this poem.
~William Hammett
Site Map
No comments:
Post a Comment