Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Lacking, nothing

Roadside, I ponder naught:
can a lack be pure?
an impure lack is not one,
a lack is the purest thing,
or no-thing: absolute absence

Standing here I see better--
only that a bus isn't yet coming
to save from the cold wind
which bites hands as they write

But in it, when it comes,
a small boy claims not to be there,
then notes the sun now lacks.

The theme repeats outside my mind,
or my mind repeats beyond itself,
or myself repeats beyond its time;
myself regressed, I was that boy, alike:

Lack of a car brought me here.

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