JO THORPE
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LIVING WITH THE UNRESOLVED QUESTION
Of its shape, they wake to it every day.
They know its curve, survey it,
don’t understand it.
They run laps round it on querulous legs
thereby hatching a kind of dynamic:
balance coming from the flow.
Later they notice the gap does not close.
They gaze a while longer.
Something in the fold-and-swirl
reins in the eye. They press the heart’s
giddy raft right up against it.
Pull the shield after.
As for me, I have my bow drawn.
I’m about to loose a poem at the sky.
