Dissection of a Poet

And being active

Like the Nightjar,

On the periphery

Of night and morning,

And evening and night.

I keep time of these limits,

And contend these works,

For Reason.

As by their nature

Are they not of tangled reasoning?

But note, not this piece.

It works thus, to explain, that,

Zoned in by my time,

I secrete these evening tones

So as the pages of mindfulness

Are churned, one leaf by one leaf,

Are tumbled to the table,

To set and be slid away.

Here then in all which follows on,

Is revelation.

I wrote at close of day,

Or suddenly at dawn.

These works are set forth

For your judgement.

My thoughts transfer as muddled lines.

Yet do I write this to explain.

I am looking everywhere

And must speak up.

Driven I have to do this.

I set before you my work,

It is here on the table.

Read it, then put it aside.

(c) 2019 Christopher Thompson

all rights reserved.

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