Fifty-Seven Minutes

Where’s the poh-tree now?
I expect it. Accept it.
Weight… await… a weight…
Lie-ing somewherewhen around.

Where’s th’poet then?
Except in streams un-sifted: silent,
strewn abound in thrown-out throes
of signals – channeled; symbol shaped.

?Whence (oh whence) a-whence it
filts filuvial, uptaking silts
of diff’ring reams, eroding off
the pressured sediment.

Such serrated gates, through which
only may pass expression…
Breach the curved internment
somewhichwayhowevermore!

Where is the poetry and
where’s the poet that it clasps to?
Seeping, seeking life
beyond the mind…

 

Image credit¬†–¬†Theoi

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