The mind – the child –
coos a lullaby,
constantly rocking itself to sleep,
every oscillation betwixt
troubling narrows and peaceful still
placing a growing layer,
soil or scar,
between the wandering core
and the cold cosmos.
Is every night’s
reconciliation of dream and reality
an imagination tamed
and a toll thereon?
Certainly, that range
was ever tented
by the eternal tectonics
of desire and its lived border —
but does some force of maturation
burn a scrap of our sense of the world
so that we can warm ourselves at the flame?
Is a modernity —
of mankind, of a man —
a liminality?
Are there treasures
that rival the raw and majestic facts
of existence
in the rarified aether
of the world imagined?
I swear I have seen them:
blue and pink receding
mirages in fog.
Every Monument a Marble Janus 