Questions mount by ranks in compliments, the odd, the even third’s irrelevant—
To be or not to be, to seek what’s seen or unseen or better not to see
at all—so what’s a circus in a world without eternity?
Though you’re never here; the monitor’s are and adamant,
Unequivocal, belligerents beyond the why and wherefore, or what’s the point?
And were you here beside me, would I then need sleep?
Awake, of course, but to open my mouth and sing? Which?
Would I seek another ocean’s steel, another steep
Abyss within, impose a living curfew on the thing or casually anoint
The advent’s risk with just a simple kiss? There’s a Judas in this
Somewhere and while his days are numbered with the dusts, a wrinkled
Inevitability seals an excess housed in caskets filled with gold.
When the last least crop
Of shibboleths is coined and counted, there he’ll be atop the list
Some two branches lower on the tree, twin broken tokens found, and not other sound.
And when I go,
I’ll nowhere to be found and who is’t takes time to lay me in the ground?
…Concessions, yes, of course, in hirsute clouds and rust stains from the last and latest deluge drained that dusty rains can well afford; their comfort, hearts within the sheltered warmth and nightly wells of welcome find everyone in time refined in my own bed…
…I imagine angels on the pillow where I lay my head,
And when I write I am at Temple as I pray in nightly sanctuary of the arts
Within my head; I read or hear within the marble tabernacle some tale, a fable
Running rampant through that vapid place where syllables and sounds abound
But are not voiced and never heard as choirs of laughter round
The workman’s bench, no clock is wound, as guests have long since left the table.
Yes! One day’s maintains bear no obvious hint of perseverance,
No consolation in arrears for years, no respite from the constant consequence
Of experience formed in beads of real fears. Vision simply comes to me, enabled,
Ready made. Who I am to speak? With whom am I that am alone? I ignore
The luminosities of mirage as I lay here but for a superficial middling time,
And here with me is what almost never is and almost nothing more.
Original Burlwood Sculpture at top by Leo E. Osbourne…