(I promise--this is the last revision!)
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The transparent center draws us:
Its gleams whirling in darkness.
We move to escape,
Yet find we are closer.
As proliferation on the outside
Pulls matter from the hub,
The vacuum grows stronger.
Those not well anchored to the surface
Tumble inward flailing.
We who once lay on our backs
Watching stars in the night,
Who spent energy and time
Of any kind,
Instead of appearances:
Woe to us!
The Ruthless One has grabbed us by that handle
And we are undone.
The Great Wasp lays us like eggs
In the belly of the caterpillar
Until others praise,
"How fat it is!
What a fine butterfly will soon appear!"
But the Trickster Void
Plans a future beyond guessing.
My traitor heart.
Alas! If I had not stared long at those sunsets,
Or scrubbed my being, some instants,
Of all but wonder,
If I had curled in the glow of the TV,
Browsed meaning from shop windows,
Then perhaps the Blind Force
Of a Thousand Winds
Would not have picked me up,
Would not have hurled me as a stone
All the false and solid things.
O, Devastating Birth,
I swear I knew not your nature
On that day when I cried to you,
"Rush in, O Great One,
Shatter these windows
And break down this
My heaving door . . . "
When one man has reduced a fact of the imagination to be a fact to his understanding, I foresee that all men will at length establish their lives on that basis. ---H. D. Thoreau