Sans Images

An oldy but an oldy.......


The Long Earth

In the long earth, dreams abide of you.
These are not my dreams
As in a sequence of calendar pages,
Ripped by the numbers and
Each day representing missed time,
Days when your lower lip may have quivered
At the edges,
But not so I could see,
Raising the question not purely aesthetic,
Of what significance the gesture has for me
Unobserved.
What indeed is the shared reality, if any,
Of these days lived in parallel?
I am not sure that Frost’s roads capture it quite,
His having some symbolist aspiration in the guise
Of yankee common sense.
And I, I lose the common touch when I think of you
For longer than the time required to build a construct
Upon which any such ambitious language can be hoisted.

I lose the sense of you when I leave the confluence of memory
And sensation,
As would be the case with any strained
Attempt at grander verse.