53

The fool prefers the cloud
Where all that might appear
Might yet appear and the impossible
Might still be carved from the fog.

The obvious is, of course, too obvious,
Oblivious of the well and the spring
He passes, thirsting, an inch from the wall
And the brick on the road where he trips and falls

And says: I am straight, I am a compass,
I am not lost: I have myself
And all that I am the world is
And he clutters the earth with his will.

The sun shines on his wooden head
And a fire bursts within and he says: I'm a genius!
He pets the dog to show his compassion
(He is much beloved by fleas).

Senselessly he licks the slit
Where nine hundred thousand have spent their spunk;
He eats from her shit and drinks his own piss
Standing as a watch on a wall and says

I am clean, and, I have done well!
Yet he fears what he need not
And he laughs at the worm
Because he loves the fog

For the fog flatters him
And he loves the dog
For the doggy licks him
And he loves his captivity

For a slave to his mastery
Is what the fog tells him he is.



What is this lightness I feel
Coming that so sorely oppresses him?

What is this light, so clear
Bursting into solid walls
Of pearly gold where women and men—
Young and old—love and laugh like children?


© Dan Goorevitch, 1996