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Truth is just the opposite of sense:
What we know will lift, eventually, like fog.
Each paradox is like a shining face
Nodding vacantly across a room.
The only source of thought is innocence,
Yet we must wear the colors of the wog.
The signature of arrogance is grace:
How can we know, except that we presume?
Reason robs the soul of nutrients:
Each heart constructs its own bright carapace;
Each mystery divides within its womb.
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
