How It Comes Down

Torn by nonsense oppositely to conscience
the man was faced with crawling and dottering
he knew there was a place for him in between.

He learned new words in order of difficulty
he stocked up on beef jerky and books
he ate and read until his bones were hard.

Nights wasted away in concocting
one link at a time in a pastoral chain
as loose as geese connecting north and south.

Not a clue shows up in his history of
his adventures in digging through passages
or his love of ambiguous phrases.

His euphoria at all mountain passes
his pride in outsmarting aging
his biographers will find no life in the evidence.

His children argue was he there or not
some of the first steps toward pan-essence
he left no trace of that in footprints.

From ocean to ocean in a religious panama
in broad and brush strokes dense panic
as close to panorama as emotion gets.

All the time spent in shallow sensitivity
to what must lie under muddy boots
all those irrepressibly echong pings

spinning variations that fall into groups
days with clouds and without webs spun
into rough sacks and fine beehives.

He settles at leisure into hexagonal striving
and produced by cooling so many round
blobs of poem descending under ground.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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