But for the dead
there is so little time
so little time to walk about the caverns of this earth
so little time to talk about the patterns of our birth
what makes us think, what makes us breathe ...
so little time before we leave
Eighteen months--the time of two gestations--
since dad went back to school,
gathering his pens and papers between clasped hands,
awake behind closed eyes.
What do they teach, I wonder.
Flying lessons? How to dance on the head of a pin?
Or could it be simpler than that? Could it be
things that we here take for granted:
Pleromatic ideals from before-during-after.
Ongoing rapture that comes-goes within-out.
Seeking. Finding. Knocking. Opening.