My important highways
have become
interior ones
books
of anatomy
my atlases
diagrams
of sheathed nerves
and bundled muscles
my road maps.
I plot
latitudes and meridians
visualize
complex topographies
trace
red routes
of pain
consider
their beginnings
and ends
look
inside myself
to measure progess
of half finished
journeys.
Illustration by Lucy -
see more of her art at spaces.msn.com/members/digitalgarlic.
4 comments:
I'd missed this one. Just read it.
It's a lot more pensive than the other poems, Coyote. And if I may say so, I sense pain.
Lucy
Well, Lucy, it is indeed about pain, but not painful in itself. An acknowledgement of something one lives with, but that one will not allow to become one's whole life.
Pensive? I suppose, but I think most of these kinda lean in that direction... one can also be pensive, yet lighthearted. And, okay, this one isn't very lighthearted. That's okay too, as long as I haven't made it completely leaden and dreary. For it to work, there's still got to be an essential aliveness... or maybe a curiousity about life.
It isn't laden and weary. And yes, there is a curoisity...who knows where the roads lead, right?
Exactly right...
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