I see the reflection in the glass of windows I pass on the street, do not recognize him, just the shadow of what I remember seeing on this almost anniversary of a time when I better recognized who it is I see as I pass, beyond those now hopeful moments when I could still take the high road when I always knew I could not, did not wean to, perhaps merely pretended it was possible, left now with only the mirror image of what once was or might have been, the end of innocence that was not as innocent as I believed, time firmly confirming what Blake claim, untested innocence is not innocent, but folly.
I stroll along streets all now familiar from those days when
I was deaf and dumb and blind, and like a superstitious kid, I tried my best to
avoid stepping on the cracks that would break my moter’s back, the innocence that
is not innocence, the phony reflection of her, of me, of things not possible
even then, the face of a strange in each window that I pass
No comments:
Post a Comment