Oracle Poem

I never have met my maker, myself.
But then, I suppose,
I haven’t been looking, and wouldn’t
know where to. Are they
a fever on the first warm
day? The crocuses sprouting
from city dirt? Being
followed
on the walk home at night?

Investigative journalism,
or a clean resolve
to be content with a mystery
of metaphysics?

Deep pain in the bones,
or the sun,
suddenly, on a patch
of skin?

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s