Those little fingers dads had held on tight for years before green bench, are beyond the green sea practicing greenbacks ,stirring greenest envy in aggregates yet not green-backed.
Tiny fingers, now ringed and stubby, hardly seem to question dads’ right to talk aggregates on green bench. They now have a right to the big picture. In any case the fingers, now stubby and ringed, have no green views in the matter.
Just to see where a border may begin we reflect on a turquoise mountain lake ending its waters somewhere in an enemy country , where soldier boots click in faint sounds beyond. We have a barbed wire piercing a sky ,where we have another enemy country whose shells come in a hill sky’s pitch dark sprinkling white snow with red stars.
But in the snow wastes ending in a sky ,with here and there graves of soldiers, borders are drawn with mind’s fingers. They soon disappear in soldier graves.
In the hotel ,on the Dover beach, the Honeymooner tells his girl: come to the window and see the lights glimmer on the French side of the channel.
He does not mean the channel perfume .How the sea of faith has ebbed, how the armies clash in the confusion of the night.
He is reminding how the Aegian sea once reminded Sophocles about the rising tide of human misery. How the sea has ebbed , how it has closed.
I follow fragments of a phone conversation .It is all about a fragment disowning another. The fragment has to dissociate itself from another. A fragment of a paper has to prove its DNA , it’s otherness.Fragments are not responsible for others’ fragments . Surely some other wholeness is responsible for the fragments .
We are here to prove we belong to the wholeness.Our fragments lie in broken body state .Our bodies are straining to remain wholes while our minds are breaking away from their whole. They are trying to maintain their separateness .
Our words are fragments of a digital past .We break away from them at the end of our stanzas ,our D.N.A s leaving their fragments for other fragments. Our poems are fragments of stanzas , our end-lines broken loose ends.
Thank god , we are independent.We are our own independent torsos, bathing in rivers dirty by other torsos.(after white torsos had left our shores to fight their own independent wars leaving them pale as impaled moons.)
We thank our bare chested grandfather who had made us independent men, a fine wet mass of river dipping torsos.
The struggle went on, inside of her with people, forces of nature, mind pitted against an old body that raged in pallid fury. Food came out as water in running car as we drove to people for reluctant homes.
The struggle was against people who would not cede ground for her in their space. Not well in the body, yet she struggled like a desperate bear in the forest hole in a net of latticed shadows in the hole as it closed around her body with people watching from the rim of the earth-hole.
The struggle would go on till the desert-show was finally over under the star-lit theater and men would get up and go their homes with a few memories for night-dreams.
Fleeting truths lie in five senses each naysaying what other has found to be only truth, all making no joint sense except a temporary truth ,an away truth, a far truth,a more near, less of truth in their joint light, a night.
The five of them now lie through their joint teeth. It is the only truth, so far yet near, only to seem drifting , bubbles formed to break and dissolve ,moments dissolved soon in the enormity of night.