There’s a bug on the mailbox
doing not a thing but be-
ing there, unaware of me
for I am now at my desk
making this poem, loving
the bug that I still see there
with a sense of awareness
that is not my own and may
well be shared with all I’m not.
The bug knows me not and I
know it not, and in that space
of unknowing, we are known
as one, so it makes sense that
the bug be the author of
this poem in the making.
No comments:
Post a Comment