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Torn
I am always torn and if not torn, I will tear myself:
Between two worlds,
Two cities,
Two loves.
Two desires, two wants, two hopes, two
dreams.
What I want,
What I aspire to,
What I am.
The image and the reflected and these do not align.
Like metal
Music.
Dissension, excitement, then subdued.
Chaos and the Angel.
Hand held out stretched out
Arm stretched
Finger pointing.
Like the fresco by Michelangelo on the Sistine Chapel,
Or the painting by Raphael with Plato and Aristotle.
Differences.
Divided.
Here and there,
Earth and …
Life, like highway, split into lanes.
Like ground breaking,
An earth quake splitting,
The earth, the rocks.
The falling away
Of solid ground.
(if one stands upon something that does not exist...?)
The distance is too great to jump toward the stars,
Their courageous magnanimity too far.
I am of the basics,
The necessity of things,
The plates the knives the forks of things.
Passing York Creek and a small line of trees,
Watson Lane,
Old Bastrop Road.
The path that seemed
right.
But again I chose structure.
Train of white headlights like a bridal veil,
Like a young bride’s veil,
Moving toward, then past.
Long drives
Dark nights
Red taillights
White stripes
Yellow lines
Yellow signs
Yellow lights from the rigs,
Bright.
Then static.
The airways dead.
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