By Richard Mather
I was a lonely cripple
Seeking shelter;
I heard thunder, saw fire.
Sleeping too much,
Snow on the rise.
My bones warm in an oven.
I am outside again,
Near the church entrance.
A whirlwind spins me round.
I fall on my knees, drag
Myself along the damp ground
Towards my own grave.
Is this the path I should take?
What of thinking?
I awake but I am still
Sleeping. What did
The thunder say? What?
Can geometry put
Flesh on the bone?
Can it save the soul?
I cannot feel without
My body.
What is it I know? What?
Innocent flesh dreaming
A fragile ego?
I am. I exist. That is certain.
Doubtful.
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