By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 5/1/08

In spite of the rigid dominion
Of our agendas, it has not proved possible
To excise the blink reflex, so the trembling
Of our manicured shrubberies’ leaves,
Or the shadows of crows’ wings sliding
Overhead, or the cup and crest of water
As it shimmers, can still disrupt
Our orderly circuitries. Even with eyes
Sewn shut, strange lights invade us.
And the clocks dissolve once more into fluid hours.
The neon of haloes, of stars, of crosses,
Of weavings keeps undulating through
Our inner landscapes, obliterating
Our fragile exterior structures.
Whenever the flicker-mania seizes us,
We wallow in archetypal memories,
In spherical visions, in dioramic movies.
What good is it that our officialese
Has condemned the phenomenon
As a useless vestige, the inflamed appendix
Of our degenerate brains,
An ecstasy that cannot removed?
Of what use are decrees that we open our eyes?
The leaves go a-flutter and the bird wings flap,
And we slither above the floor of a sun-shot ocean,
Where giant mollusks open their lustrous traps.

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