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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Basic HTML is allowed. Your email address will not be published.

Subscribe to this comment feed via RSS

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: