Who Shall Doubt
consciousness in itself of itself carrying 'the principle of the actual' being actual itself ((but maybe this is a love poem Mary) ) nevertheless neither the power of the self nor the racing car nor the lilly is sweet but this
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Me! he says, hand on his chest. Actually, his shirt. And there, perhaps, The question. Pioneers! But trailer people? Wood box full of tools— The most American. A sort of Shrinking in themselves. A Less than adult: old. A pocket knife, A tool— And I Here talking to the man? The sky That dawned along the road And all I've been Is not myself? I think myself Is what I've seen and not myself A man marooned No longer looks for ships, imagines Anything on the horizon. On the beach The ocean ends in water. Finds a dune And on the beach sits near it. Two. He finds himself by two. Or more. 'Incapable of contact Save in incidents' And yet at night Their weight is part of mine. For we are all housed now, all in our apartments, The world untended to, unwatched. And there is nothing left out there As night falls, but the rocks
consciousness in itself of itself carrying 'the principle of the actual' being actual itself ((but maybe this is a love poem Mary) ) nevertheless neither the power of the self nor the racing car nor the lilly is sweet but this
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Veritas sequitur ... In the small beauty of the forest The wild deer bedding down— That they are there! Their eyes Effortless, the soft lips Nuzzle and the alien small teeth Tear at the grass The roots of it Dangle from their mouths Scattering earth in the strange woods. They who are there. Their paths Nibbled thru the fields, the leaves that shade them Hang in the distances Of sun The small nouns Crying faith In this in which the wild deer Startle, and stare out.