Pen and Hand
Leaves begin to turn, clichés of Autumn
and the sound of snow falling and like so much
and so little, we Live as an ocean within skin,
an ocean of want and desire, all the while
knowing or unknowing fate's dreaded bliss.
This night is cool with lampposts peeking over fences.
It's early October and the Jack-o-lantern rubber ball
kicked and kicked on the green field all day sits still.
Some men have time to count stresses
And the metronome dings inside my head
but I am hurried beneath the small young tree
which will explode long after I am gone,
and they say the I the eye, the mind
is but a shadow and the we and the you
Are where it's at, but I wonder if lost or wounded
we are not but animals moving on
towards prey, nomadic and stone-hinged
the tool within our palm but a stone.