Poetry: A Myopic Vision

I don’t hear a god talking to me,
nor see gnostic visions from some hill.

I hear people speaking one to another,
their voices weave patterns out of air:

a quilt to keep our thoughts warm,
safe, obedient to our structured desires.

No paranoid delusions of abstract control,
no hubris that I can see beyond our life:

the street in front of me is just the street
that is in front of me, no significance

beyond a way to be here or not here,
transcendent only in the sense that today

becomes today yet again in ongoing temporal
tessellations like heat waves across the horizon.

(August 2010)

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