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Truth is a passion uncontrolled by sense.
What we know is seldom more than what we think.
Each touch of the world seems a revelation,
Neither shaped by words nor sifted through sensation,
The thing itself, untamed, the longed-for link:
Yet the bride forever keeps her innocence.
Nestled in each word is a relation
Imprecise, misleading, and intense,
Near plunging into speechless radiance,
Even as it rests upon the brink.
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
