Epistle l
what if you built a tree-house
and suddenly the supporting
branches of your airy aerie
disappeared-vanished quite
and left the roof momentarily
suspended in mid-air, before the
leafy couvercle crashed down
at the usual speed of 32ft/second?
That's what it would be like
if suddenly your dear little mind
were cleansed of its assumptions
swept bare-what a scare
of, yes, assumptions, those children
of Memory and Usage, those kids
that refuse to leave home
having too comfortable a stay
given you by father, fashion, faith,
that you love but resent
the need to feed; after all, you got 'em,
and they're not going anywhere-
undisplaceable, ineraseable
passively borne
like a bathtub its sepia ring
obliging you to rocket
to Mars or sound ocean's bottom.
What folly. How scary it that?
All those assumptions gone?
Peace at the cost of new anxiety...
poem by Morgan Michaels
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