My soul has been baked
into a pudding.
i eat, standing over the kitchen sink,
looking out at the back yard,
and wish to remain there all day,
watching rabbit denude the garden
and blossoms sing of their own passing.
At times like this, i wish only to move
as the current of life will move me.
i have no designs
on reaching or grasping:
are achievement enough.
Perhaps this isn't lethargy after all:
it may just be the call
of the corpuscles
The wild cry of the nucleotides
The singing of cells
Through the arches
The wall of my slumbering soul:
Live, live, live . . .
-- Mr. Gobley