Sometimes I scrutinize this bedsit:
shoes and runners pointing in different directions on floor;
red jacket strewn across arm of sofa;
an unmade bed, the sheets tossed about and ruffled from torturous sleep;
various books half-read;
a burnt saucepan steeping in sink;
washed-out tins of tuna on draining board.
I live among things.
I see things that have been moved around for one reason or another or none at all.
I step out from flesh to survey the innocence of movement, of purpose, of threads that unravel into one big knot.
There's a man living in this enclosure, a ghost.
We never meet.
We're not supposed to meet.
I look around this bedsit and sigh,
for the surface of self cannot be probed without distortion.
o survey the innocence of movement, of purpose, of threads that unravel into one big knot. there is a ghost here...... so many who are engaged in eostherics say about an out.of body experience. some believe it, some do not......... so is it..... thank you for this good poem which gives notions which are different than normal. tony
Tony, thanks for such an insightful critique.