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