My Eyes, the World
I cannot really listen to Sgt. Pepper’s.
I don’t know how to start a conversation.
How, to me, means how.
No, I can’t imagine another way.
Notwithstanding preconceptions
About cognition, I think that shirt
Is awful. And fMRI would affirm,
By rainbow butterfly Rorschachs,
That things work differently in here.
Everything hidden is a palimpsest for beauty.
Forget the garden, the dance, your manners —
We’ll hide together under large sculptures,
Caressing the delicate flowers
Of our ears, and think
At each other, How lucky I am!
How terribly, terribly lucky.
* * * * *
Poetry as self-justification. And why not? It’s tempting to offer you an anecdote about the creation of this poem, the way I do for all the others that get posted here, but I’m not going to because I’m stubborn and, in this case, I think it would detract from, rather than add to, what I’ve written.
I cannot really listen to Sgt. Pepper’s.
I don’t know how to start a conversation.
How, to me, means how.
No, I can’t imagine another way.
Notwithstanding preconceptions
About cognition, I think that shirt
Is awful. And fMRI would affirm,
By rainbow butterfly Rorschachs,
That things work differently in here.
Everything hidden is a palimpsest for beauty.
Forget the garden, the dance, your manners —
We’ll hide together under large sculptures,
Caressing the delicate flowers
Of our ears, and think
At each other, How lucky I am!
How terribly, terribly lucky.
* * * * *
Poetry as self-justification. And why not? It’s tempting to offer you an anecdote about the creation of this poem, the way I do for all the others that get posted here, but I’m not going to because I’m stubborn and, in this case, I think it would detract from, rather than add to, what I’ve written.
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