A looped rope
lies on deck,
and the last
touches the first.
The middle
commingles.
Who’s to say
what repetition
means when we
can’t know echoes,
can’t know the ghostly
strands woven
of chance and fate?
A coil springs
from memory,
and the impulse
falls on itself.
The middle co-
mingles. What means
make ends when
ends are never last,
never climax
of chance and fate,
and never never?
The middle commingles.
A looped bit of music
insists on perpetuity
in memory. Echoes?
The ghostly black
strands of branches
in moonlight. The light
falls on itself, layers
of illumination we can’t
separate, can’t know
apart from one
another.
A looped rope
about the mast, and more
neat than it would be
without us. The middle:
it knows itself
without precedent,
consequence. Who’s
to say echoes
die? The days
tread like ghosts, us
among them, amid
them, inside
them, middle
commingling.
Filed under: Abstraction, Chaos, Dreams, Fate, Form, Human Nature, Ideas, Identity, Knowledge, Life, Longing, Memory, Musings, Novelty, Poetry, Repetition, Silliness, Surrealism, Thoughts, Time, Writing Experiments
The rhythm of repetition, of ever winding…thank you for this. As always, your writing makes something in me that is on automatic stop, look, listen afresh.
Welcome back! This poem was purely experimental, nothing I ever do, so I’m especially gratified anything came out of the effort at all. Thank you. —D