See this table top. Smooth, waxed <br />to a point, a soup stain which perhaps <br />a finger nail will lift. Beneath the surface, <br />atoms, molecules, tension and release, <br />law and freedom play out a drama <br />which the teacup does not know or tell. <br /> <br />And so, much else. All. And so the mind. <br />As if, webcamming the family at play, <br />the screen jumpcuts, plays on the screen <br />your inner life for all to see; the family freeze, cold, <br />open-mouthed… <br /> <br />Two years ago, I eased myself into a chair, <br />anticipating pleasant conversation – but instead <br />the camera of the mind presented, in full colour, <br />a glowing red-hot sphere, like <br />a sunset on a dusty day. Or Mars, more like, <br />in all its fierce, fearsome anger – anger <br />stayed on that screen for six whole weeks <br />while body, mind and soul perhaps <br />played turmoil with its outcome quite unknown. <br /> <br />Just now, I lift my gaze from the crumbs on plate; <br />the camera points at what it should now screen, <br />the window; but the mind sees something else, <br />as clear as mind but rarely seen in mind. <br />It's saying something new about myself. <br />Watch the screen; but watch the camera too.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0038-underthings/
