Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Which way, Billy Pilgrim?

A going back.
I’m going back, or forward. Or both,
and every point in between,
Billy Pilgrim style.

Not a holy place, the place
I began, or the place I’m going.

Not wholly that place, or this,
but a place I can pretend is. There.
There it is. It is

in a wood, somewhere not far,
sheer, copper-penny
snake skins are slipped,
if not where I’d keep them.
And it’s there,

further on in that wood, trees change
but not the wood, and a sound comes,
just the sound, and then nothing more
than a ripple of chocolate-
milk water. It’s there, where now
jumped, and nothing’s gone

missing with the log lost underneath
orange lichen, I’m going. It’s there
I’ve been.

1 comment:

Eileen T O'Neill ..... said...


I think you are 'between places and abodes.'

Your poetic words bring the reader to an unreal, supernatural places and momentarily back to a touch of reality,.....or not:)

Loved this Francis.

Best Wishes as Fall descends upon us, I think, Eileen