PIVOT POINT

July [17] 2008

(Poem)

I’m age straddling

the pivot point

on the old proverbial half glass:


Half empty — half full?

Sleep grows ever distracted

with visitations from both sides.


And where are my friends

at 43 now that I hunt

for meaning halfway between

the sun and moon.


I’m a man of inklings

and something lightheaded as

the glittering specters

of long dead stars

flickers up the nightsleuth in me.


I swear there’s a crossover–

and perception is pivotal;


Images shuffled into sharpened spaces

market you with their bogus math

giving unequal partners equal shares.


But the crossover isn’t

between the images themselves,

nor where the dividing lines fade–

it’s with the pivot points.

How they no longer seem crucial.


Because they walk and talk like a duck

what we see

has replaced

how we know.

1993

ORDER Art’s Chapbook, OLD BONES POEMS

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