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CATKIN-BLURS
Do
not, my soul, try to hunt
with
the resources of the emptied mind, with falls
into
abnegation, for the sensible emptiness, the Grund
beyond
the glassy walls
and
the wiles of the catkin and the
alluring
of the cherry’s vapour-trail hat in the suburb’s
Erscheinen.
Such quests of the spirit are mandated to be
senseless
dives into mind-warps.
The
mirrors that magnify
dawn-of-time
supernovae and data that suggest
eternal
expansion and large-scale anti-gravity;
mathematics
that play with vast
descents
into the small,
inferring
other dimensions, plural universes,
cannot
drill data, in principle, far beyond the wall,
the
catkin-blurs, hiss
of
suburb traffic, so
why,
soul, should you feel that your contrivances, your power
to
slow the heart or bypass pain, can go
into
some timeless hour,
a
sensible nothing, death-
in-life,
nirvana or transcendence? For
now the wall
is
hung with flowers. Pretty?
Beauty’s no test
of
Truth. So leave it, friend.
Alan
Marshfield
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