The Pilgrimage: Part 17 / Phillip Neal Tippin
She kept her finger on the thread in the dark,
Spun in the sun, strung for the touch.
I could sink into the poetry like I
Sink into an Irish inn in storm.
The danger of living it,
But living it out in theory,
Simulated meaning.
I must follow You
To the fold
To rest.
Such a sheep,
I’m tender and tame
Sleep, shade, shelter,
Tinder my flame.
An earnest chasing down
Through borrowed books
In the teeth of life
Makes double sure
I know nothing but
Sung in some register
With rhymes clef-tied,
Yet, all stave high.
The un-health of dreams
Worries my waking.
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