Just leave me here a while,
in this space full of wreckage
and broken things.
Don’t mind me.
I will just lean a while against the wall
and take it in, mentally sort through the rubble
like a kid with tinkertoys. It is not dramatic,
the thinking. It makes me seem useless,
a fly on the wall, nothing more.
But there is magic in it,
the recreation of worlds, taken the broken
and making, not restoring, making
something new. Art direct from Hell.
A thing I have learned from the worst of times,
is more possible, and when I let it be,
more fun than I deserve.
About this poem.
Not feeling it today, so I just perused my pictures and found a couple to write to. That’s why I take pictures. Not so much to capture moments as to stimulate them. This one was taken at Mass MoCA.
Like most of my poems, there is truth in it. But it is poor history.
Have a blessed day,