The Juggler [poem]

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I play with every precious moment
dribbling down the parapet of time.
This four-ball juggler plies his art
and staggers from not one intrinsic
nanosecond to the next but none;
then puts his cart before the horse
and, reaching down into the wallet
of his moon, he slides a card into
the greasy hand of fate and asks if
it’s too late to be a caller at the door.

This crystal-coded paradise of mine:
this atom mass of fledgling fingers
everywhere and nowhere feeling
out into the voidless empty space
(where engrams linger painlessly
and thirstful mouths drink from
the sea unquenchingly without
a smile as childless quarks cavort)
is one vast question-mark of creel
where nothing is revealed except for
what we need to know which —
learning as we go — we grow within.

But here’s the thing which truly grates:
The moment that this little play is done,
within the inly twinkle winking of an eye
that moment then becomes another one!
So, thus, in order to discern the riddle
rankling me I must stop being me and die,
forget all that I know (and who I am, deny)
plus every fact which has been crammed
inside my space (isn’t mine in any case).
And nothing useful rhymes with death
except for that last gasply exhaled breath.

© Alan Morrison, 2013

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