At the Wavering Threshold

by JAMES MEETZE

 

 

Spears of rain pierce the drought
but we are above it, in green
in a different air less dry
where everything rises
from some glacial depth.

Thinking about thought
as a folding into

and a gazing out from 
the point at which the image is lost

to powers larger than me.
The tree can’t stand for it. 

The moon crosses into my sign
which is perceived as power. 

What if I am just a function
of the systems put in place
to keep the polis drowsy
despite the poem and its process?

What if this is it? This green rain
red tree, gray other. If this is all.

If it touches, is there some spark
of relevance in the blur?

The folded image creases
only the torso can cross over. 

Only the head can think to sing
about the bottom half, the body
politic left underworld. 

It cannot be undone
but this world is no longer viable