mnenomic Dali

the tipping point
turns
the road is smooth
but not yet traveled
creature comforts for a fool's paradise,
what do I know, for example?

the night is long and dark in the algid breath
of winter and spring comes on forever
no matter the discontented hour.
I'm just an old fool sometimes,
my body is my cage, my mind a sharpened weapon
lacking courage to pluck out my own eyes, strange
thoughts govern;

beyond the persistence of time and its pleasure
there is a field that feels alive, my untrained hands
grope its waning light, I see it speak in tongues
with clouds of people coming down from the mountain,

peeling away, I reminisce with the onion paper of skin;
by the insistence of poetry, I am expiated;

I put on a freshly ironed blouse, cover myself with flowers,
lay bare my poem.