A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Preferring comfort, you plan to discard your powers. To bury them in the garden or in your neighbor’s field. I don’t blame you. You’re tired of the chronic shivers, worn out by the way art’s part cotton candy, part crucifixion.
But if you’ve learned to love a splintery music only you can hear — you will go back. You’ll dig them up. What you’re after could be thunder, or bullshit, or balderdash. It might be close as friendly fire or distant as Tibet. But in the end we have to trust the tongue’s rough instincts. It’s that lonely here. And we have so much time.
Copyright 2015 Deborah Bogen