A sparrow lights upon
a black phone wire,
sits a moment,
and takes wing;
two minutes later,
a cardinal
takes its place.
What has changed;
appearance or substance?
People, places, things -
ephemeral
until
infused
with meaning
carefully chosen,
like the fragrance
of lilacs
filling a room.
To be a human
is to be a poet;
to be a poet
is to be a god.
Every story told
engenders a creation.
What is imagined
is real;
not the orange,
but the graceful,
white fingers
peeling it.
Ergo:
a man
tells stories
about a man
telling stories.
The instances
of a life -
imagined -
create
and recreate
that life.
The picture is seen;
the picture does not see.
Heads spin,
not the world.
This has all
happened before
and will all
happen again.
-mce
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