How can I, knowing what I know,
participate in frivols, bask within
its glow? Kick an object to a goal,
or in a shallow hole? Blind, unfeeling
sport! My mind does not allow me
to do itself so short.
Yet what draws them? What know they
that I miss? The bliss of bodies
thrusting physically, enmeshed in
screams and jeers? The cheers? To be
up there in air? To perform the dance
of peacocks, crowing their advance?
To dance? The kick of feet and arms
flung wide. For pride? They prance
their youth (verility) into the
world's sterility. And all I do is
hide? No! I guide
my mind across the page
my sage, and see pure mystery unfold
- I know: there is still deeper yet to
go. I burrow, dig, dig, (see, no jig?)
deeper yet, forget the clunk of the dunk
and meet, through ice and sleet and rain,
in pain, those who elsewhere now remain
minds still bent in time's tight noose, and to
its beats, its dips, its feats, its slips,
scratching their pens
on yellowing sheets,
and I dance their dance in a pirouette
and know there is more to be learnt from them yet.