Passing Peripherals (A Poem of the Season)

A photo of a tree at night.

Bruce Irschick/Flickr

What is it about the wind

That allows the secrets in?

Shapes rush past: are they human?

Neighbors or merely phantom?

I lunge forward, moving away

From the statue of a superlative steed,

Need I feel fear, uncertainty

In the darkish park/

Hardly! I am freshly stimulated;

My cheer brushed

By a barking fluffy pup.

(A leftward extension of an old

Buick Park Avenue rear passenger

Port, but – chort!”)

Why then does the brief infusion

Of a bewildered / or enthused dog

Arouse my imaginings of the

Wonders of a life examined (and enjoyed);

Far better than the peripheral,

Blurred shades

Of an anthropoidal,



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