by Gideon Burton
Of what exists that matters in the gray
and wet cerebrum, liquid rivers flush
with possibility, ideas that stay
until of course new currents crossing rush
a mash of second thoughts, as though the poles
of gravity inverted in a flash–
I only feel, yet cannot firmly know;
so volatile the mind, so fragment-fast.
But as the ink commits me to its form,
as sentences reveal what hid before
(secure in mute obscurity), the storm
subsides; the spyglass finds the shore.
For as I write I come to know my thought,
unborn until I craft it as I ought.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - athena