POND SONG 3.60
Opening the untouchable enclosure of shut-in selving is like a death, though sometimes the death is unnoticed, like a gentle wooing, and imperceptibly one comes alive again. G&B 223
I pass the public bench__neat stack of clothes under it
the bench itself empty__the mud’s hot glare and rapid
rippling of the neap tide__a flapping egret spins
in stenciling sun (Matisse)__and that only begins
to make sense as wen__Tu Fu mind reflects
the meandering of the flow__there are no subtexts
pond songs 