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.
The Dog Star 
Leave a Reply