Thursday, February 3, 2022

The Fixed and the Transient

How does the moon stay in the cup?
The dead weight bounces when I jerk the string.
Experience doesn't know what it is
And never takes the same arc again.

The ball in the cup's become a memory,
The only thing that doesn't leave
As it falls further in the dream,
That part of me that doesn't cease.

But the moon, the moon seems real,
Projects some structure of the rational.
Things already disappeared assume a permanence 
That makes each passing light a wound.