The Poetry Of

The poetry of ambiguity is akin to the poetry of the blindfold. Where everything might be and nothing quite is. The language of sight fails at the bend in the road. Fingers must turn eyes, feelings, headlights. The world is rendered unaccustomed, uninterpreted. Don’t be afraid! What is ambiguous is fragile, but dazzling, protected from disaster. The poetry of mist and shadows waltzing in a spotlight on thin ice.

The poetry of being late is the opposite of the poetry of waiting.The poetry of breathlessness and apology. Ballad of the flat tire, missed boat, deaf taxi and unfaithful alarm clock. To be late is to be poetically implicated in the ache and tumult of almost and if only. It is a strictly mortal concession. In all this time I’ve never met a tree who was late for an appointment. Or a sunrise that regretted sleeping in.