A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Old, that is, damn near seventy two,
You must be able to love
the inconvenience of the hot coal in my heart
that goes white hot with breath.
avoid my scraggly neck by looking in my eyes.
Everything is there. A kind of madness, yes,
but without it so much dullness
as in the slowly fading lights out there
in Normal Land, their candle’s flicker
snuffed by a sneeze.
Must be able to abide my early wakings
when I get up to feed the demons.
They will not bite:
Since I’ve ceased to deny them
they’ve grown quite tame.
I know them by name.
They’ll get along with yours just fine.
To go through one day with me requires
you know me as a child who cannot stop
pointing out that dog, that bird, that horse,
that cloud that looks like Polonius pontificating.
Can be fun.
Some have stayed, some have run.
copyright 2015 Doug Anderson