I have chased the world down rabbit trails,
leading to caches of axioms that no one
remembers except dead philosophers.
Metaphysics was my cup of tea at nineteen,
still a nightcap at sixty-seven, inebriating
the shadows of dreams drenched in Pantone colors.
The heat of night fueled my insomnia,
warmth the ultimate stimulant, stout stirrings
of life. Yet sleep is death, cold, cold death.
From the sills of windows, I have stared out
at arbors, bushy green, enormous branches
stretching across the roof, unstoppable growth.
Rabbits nibble the sweet stems of grass, noses
bobbing like nervous buoys on angry seas.
I eat only beauty now, a diet of few calories,
but plenty of weight to gain in the silent,
slumbering hours of dark. Poems pop up like
desultory dandelions. Blow away their spores
and you have the makings on an epic, if epics
did not flaunt meter and rhyme and ancient
axioms of war, endless sailing, mortal betrayal.
The world chases me through the pages of Homer,
who never existed except as a committee of oral seers,
imagining heroes in armor, their black blood flowing.