Poetry is a sign of my ancestors
interacting with my great grand children
none of whom I have seen or met.
This Now is a timeline
twisting into rope.
And untwisting as well.
This instant is a binding
and an unraveling
that affects the beginning and end.
Poetry is a fathomless orange
marking a reconstruction
of innermost perception.
Not some wild guess.
Not some flock of geese rising off a lake.
Not some infants index finger pointing.
I asked for your raw emotions
instead of a mask—
but the crowd scared you thirsty.
The orange sunset
tossed the edge of the world high—
with no sign it will return to earth.
copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney