The Mind Wanders
We pass 6th street at eight o’clock.
This is not remarkable
but sometimes one can do something
countless times and remain enchanted.
The colors aren’t the same.
Once blue, now purple, then red.
No two things are alike an hour later
but they remain familiar.
We crossed 6th street at eight o’clock.
Or was it 7th?
It’s not important.
Neither detail nor description
keep their shape in the wake
of time’s authority.
—Daniel Crook
Courtesy of the Artist
I have arrived
at a restless standstill, in the heart
of the heart of the slump, lacking
the wherewithal to repine, skimming
the torn pages of my mind, hoping
to find some shred of myself.
Sometimes, all too frequently,
it’s just not there, and it’s surprising
to find I’m still here, in an insufficiently
stifled reality. At long last, lost.
At long last, having left it
too late.
—John Tottenham
0 Comments