in that quiet place, faint
amongst the soft chatter,
the drizzle of little things hanging,
or the operations of daily dispute;
i’ve dipped down into the trough of self,
indulged in uninterrupted reverie,
as hallucinogen and spirit slow dance,
or time passes like a slow leak;
i’ve abandoned the electricity,
left behind the branching outward,
ensconced in this cavern of synaptic response,
content to piercing pesky clouds within;
my musings achingly reveal themselves as
scattered points hosting a multitude of thoughts,
a vertiginous escape to the edges
of my being, its willing and meaning inclination.
i am left with me, as i would want it to be.
alone, for now.
i resurface and take note,
my gaze blurs away definition,
and this lack of scope, it occasions repose;
whereas my abandonment of pretext
relieves this moment from expectation,
and fear is undertaken as a bargain,
it is reclassified as fodder, the commons
on which i browse these days they
afford me, my human perspective;
i live in a state as of a hunter, hunting,
ferreting out, grubbing round the piled
rubble of weathered foundations and hoary ideas;
i long now to share in mutual questing,
like microbes dividing and multiplying abundantly,
a stoloniferous parade of forward movement
that creates luring substantive consequences.
bask, oh bask under the willowed brook,
its waters and it s wine colored hues, swirl,
where the senses dine on the leavened dough
that has risen to a proof, awaiting the next punch down.
Copyright © Dennis Foss | Year Posted 2019
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