The years, my friend, they are nothing. Forty-five,
sixty. Among books, they are the paper wings.
Now they say [ am
Prabhu,
the Master.
But disciples, what do they know, they have lost their desire.
Path of Enlightenment? So they believe.
Lacking Kamala, [ took the road to the Caves.
Lacking Kamala, [ lacked my life
all day watching my shadow's mimicry, though it was I writing odes
to the caves.
So [ am telling you, young friend,
such was the antidote for too much desire.
KAREN VOLKMAN
Winter Abstract
Call me no one, candle abandoned.
From black lots, black columns, dimensions,
scattering wind. It's been a long time here,
the reOected essences of backyards,
photos freezing in your past. And less. And less.
Wouldn't promise but [ swore,
love, adventure,
kept the best of our fractured animus,
when you close the door on your nurture -
cure in ice - the most protected picture
once radical, now quest. Dear heathen ,
your magnet is nomad, do not ask
for more malignant fires, benigner poles.
