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.

All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2020-2021 by Phillip Neal Tippin. All rights reserved.

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