It’s interesting 
that people 
do walk
through life 
immersed in 
the fiction
of mind
absent to
oblivious of
the life 
they live 
either they
don’t like 
or would 
prefer not 
so they 
write and
cast themselves 
in the 
role of 
their lifetime 

We are art
each of us 
some are paintings 
others a drawing 
I a doodle 
in another’s noodle 
not an afterthought 
more a garnish 
something to tease
maybe even appease 
a thing enjoyed
either before or 
long after later 
but never then
for that then 
belongs to another 

Each day new
every day fresh
noting little tickles
and gleeful things 
plants new blossom 
snow on deck 
chill in air
things made aware
not seen before 
sleepily we walk
room to room 
mind far away 
what if we
when we were
there we were 

And yet it
is but fingers 
and not feet
that claw one 
out of whatever 
inch by inch
forward not back 
to somewhere better 
broken and ground 
down be nails 
for they know 

It’s easier not 
than to for
doing this to
drains the lake 
upon which the 
little boat that 
I am floats
at first the 
hole that to
causes goes unseen 
but then quite 
soon and quickly 
a swirl starts 
and round and 
round I go 
spinning spinning in
the spiral until 
at last I’m
pulled into under
emerging somewhere else 
on the other 
side of again 
it’s always again