Walking is like <br />imagination, a <br />single step <br />dissolves the circle <br />into motion; the eye here <br />and there rests <br />on a leaf, <br />gap, or ledge, <br />everything flowing <br />except where <br />sight touches seen: <br />stop, though, and <br />reality snaps back <br />in, locked hard, <br />forms sharply <br />themselves, bushbank, <br />dentree, phoneline, <br />definite, fixed, <br />the self, too, then <br />caught real, clouds <br />and wind melting <br />into their directions, <br />breaking around and <br />over, down and out, <br />motions profound, <br />alive, musical! <br /> <br />Perhaps the death mother like the birth mother <br />does not desert us but comes to tend <br />and produce us, to make room for us <br />and bear us tenderly, considerately, <br />through the gates, to see us through, <br />to ease our pains, quell our cries, <br />to hover over and nestle us, to deliver <br />us into the greatest, most enduring <br />peace, all the way past the bother of <br />recollection, <br />beyond the finework of frailty, <br />the mishmash house of the coming & going, <br />creation's fringes, <br />the eddies and curlicues<br /><br />Archie Randolph Ammons<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-improvisation-for-angular-momentum/
