Page 3 - Poems Vol 1
P. 3
IMBROGLIO CONVERSATIONS
Taciturn, a minute from crisis,
I bend,
Away from the mountains
Whose summits I would recline upon,
Where the limpid giants of my ecstasy
Play and turn
Upon their cedar pedestals.
In the window
An insect drawls its agony
Against the glass,
Imprisoned in its failure
To comprehend
And be comprehended.
I crush it in my empathy.
Punctuated only by autistic unions,
The ebb and flow imbroglio of words,
An endless condensation of fixtures,
Evaporates,
To hang, suspended for a while
By the thread of our initiation,
Funicular at times.
But a thread...
Yet ever willing to bend and to hold
The staccato subtlety of our prolix convulsions...
A thread such as that...
Cannot but strain two convict souls together,
Or break.
My vision, love,
Is growing dim now,
And with it,
I shall fade,
Knotted, gnarled and broken.
Recalcitrant, the strands divide…
R. J. Bater, 1970
