Sunday, November 30, 2014

Paul A. Toth

at the center
of impossibility
between the palms
of unanswered prayers
lies a whirring infancy
the spring of emptiness
the summer of existence
the fall of language
the winter of the unspeakable
four seasons of construction
to erect our leaning Pisa of me

for every season that remains
finding others
looking for ourselves
everything and everyone
vanishing in varying intervals
some propose solutions
they too disappear
death the infinite ghost
never quite here nor gone
the accumulation of instances
the frames of filmstrips
spin within each mind
anything but linear

our narrative unbearable
we exit our theater
never mind the popcorn
the gum on the seats
better left forgotten
and with nothing to do
we play roulette
two numbers apiece
gambling on a piece
of longitude and latitude
to call our own
with luck we win a destination
that falls the moment we arrive
and rises when unseen
seemingly concrete
in our absence

the sun and moon
the constellations
even shooting stars
fall into us
upon the above alone
so visible
may we rely upon
yet disown
what preceded
and will exceed
our building zone
instead we await
the ringing
of the telephone

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