i sit here pen in hand thinking
i sit here pen in hand thinking
commonplaces, while the snow falls
making it hard to come and go
i peck at my problems
like the birds on the roof, hungry for a crumb, a scrap
thown by a haughty god 'if i were him' i say
irreverently, 'well, i'd look after me first dispense
emoluments with an imperious hand like him or is it me-in-him?'
certainly the snow is a commonplace so is hunger so is god but
i mean what i see what i know what i feel not speculations
put simply, thinking goes so far, no further commonplaces
drift upon the sea of thought, floating idly while the currents play
a suboceanic surge, momentous, patient, traverses the continent of the skull
projection of the infinite, more dynamic than a mountainstream in spring,
slower than the crawling of a glacier, upending thought,
moving debris and cracking ancient beds of instinct
i almost believe this: but the birds skip on the roof unsatisfied
and the snow keeps falling, so i never shall get out
1970
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