lundi 4 juillet 2011
The Truth That Binds
Mother Yasoda binds Krishna...
When is there sleep,
before or after poetry?
Or is it found in the in-between states
when I am slumped over my computer
falling into a long line of z's?
Startled awake, trying my best but again it's
zzzzzzzzz or nnnnnnnnnnnn,
Always the same restlessness,
Brain trained to the end of a caboose,
switchbacking from one side to the other,
Left, right, jumping the track in a manic furor
as if the next poem will reveal the Truth,
All the overstated angst,
All the understated joy,
God, perhaps, in Her Universal Form.
And if I knew the Truth
would it save me from myself,
eradicate the redundant needs of this body?
Or would it rather, like a loving Mother,
tell me a story about Temperance
and bind me?