poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain

Waiting for an Index

 

We’re wondering if it will yet appear

or merely stiff us empty like Godot

a life’s concise index foot-loose

searchable by whim or purpose

indiscrete and hearty as a cactus

redeemable in tears or ancient coins

spilled at a pilgrim’s mugging  

forgotten in blood, panic and pain;

moments not then searchable

outside a narrow focus of belief

but are now, at an End

in these back pages of Unknowing Time

passing while staying as a dream

a path that does not choose

among those many branches of hurry and neglect

saved, still pending. 

 

We are yet in those moments

considered lost through any choosing

among offerings not truly offered;

what it is to choose not knowable

save as an End.  This one as always

is Life or Death, neither being what they seemed.

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