pure
future
nothing else
more so exists:
quintessentially unplucked rose
fount of hope
though
entirely mundane
though
promising
tongue-in-cheek ironies
to endure,
demanding
austerities of no complaint.
Heat
paces these streets
drinking in fires
of residual hope,
left-over-lives
calixing out of pasts
unbearably monstrous.
Traffic-tempo
conversational snatches
drifting laboured music
these
determine to exist,
colours mix
confuse themselves
as someone else
lucky
brilliant
rich
or just happy
seems to get the lot,
the golden pot
of each day.
Sweet grasses here bitter
sun glares
clouds bear
'don't-look-at-me' attitudes, and
twist a prying
an escapist
mind
with contemptous image ...
palpability
of the observer effect,
reaction
to 'get out of the way' elbowing
of minds and lives
as pavements become crowded
cracked and
traffic gets louder,
more constant.
This all is at the back:
but intimated yet,though
the opposite exists
always did.
One can only hope
in Taoist optimism
these hollows hold ambrosia,
brave and hopeful ones
must needs thoughtful sip
with sensual apertures open
to utter ambiguum.
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