Illusion

This entry is part 51 of 73 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2011-12

 

Even the eye can forget its tears,
the mouth its fondest lamentations.
Face pressed, attentive, to the glass,
the world’s a wheel, a shadow box,
a zoetrope with slits through which
we glimpse a strip of paper where
horses and birds are drawn. The wind
spins it around, or waves of air rising
warm from the lamp on which it rests:
cunningly, limbs leap from frame to
frame, crest obstacles, fluoresce.
But there’s no other word for this
wobbly apparatus of our discontent.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← Landscape, with Geese; and Later, Falling SnowLandscape, with Threads of Conversation →

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