Poem Hunter
Untitled Iv
(1957 / Columbus, NE)

Untitled Iv

Something sacramental is stealing by
This night,
A night of quiet contemplation,
Of wonders often overlooked
Like breathing.

It isn't that we mean to live
A vacant kind of life,
Numb to the miracle of our own animation.
We just are -

Until that one instant when we realize
This is not forever.
One day the secret chemistry
That gives muscles an answer to will
Must reach entropy.

Then what?
Where does the essence go
When the flame has burned all fuel
And corruption sets in
To provide provender for protozoans?

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Comments (1)

Bob, This one really got into my head. There are many 'instants when [I] realize' this. It's a good thing to realize. I'm glad for the chance to re-realize it. Gavin