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11 December 2004 7:58 am


Silent as an Indian through the brush,
It lays,
   a crushed page of notions.
   a forgotten memory outside the memoirs,
Who will note it?
Not a one.

Still as water of the indigo pool,
It lays,
   a crumpled sheet of recollections,
   a disregarded conception within convolutions.
Who will grasp it?
Not a one.

Shadowed like the mind of man,
It lays,
   a deserted file of impressions,
   a mangled idea beyond understandings.
Who will read it?
Not a one.

Fenner, New York
late 1980s

I don't remember what, specifically, inspired me to write this poem. I was obviously thinking of a discarded notes of some sort, but I'm not sure if just this general concept or a more specific experience was the impetus.

Posted by geoff at 07:58 in /poetry