"IN THE LOST FORESTS OF CHICAGO", BY CHARLES
The grass, trampled underfoot
Cradles our heads as we ask
the question of the hour:
Are we worthy?
But the hour has passed,
And the first fallen leaves
Scatter in the empty parking lot.
The philosopher, nearing death
Clings to the arm of his beloved
She has always been there.
Fearing, wildeyed
He looks to the sky, seeing
Cloudballoons drifting fantastic
Billows rolling and rising
The tempest,
In gruesome fast-forward
The curtain has torn!
The curtain has torn in two.
Oh quiet empty hours,
He remembers when
The earth opened up,
A cracked skull,
Underneath the train
Rattling away from the city.
A child,
He was only a child.
Strange, the spider-web memories,
Once lost,
That now fill his mind.
The river in the summer woods
Has twisted new paths,
Whitewater channels for his thoughts
As they flow onwards, onwards
Approaching the violent ocean.
Revelation is a vast and endless
Space, a comfortable falling
Have we learned to live?
Make a flip-turn at the wall, and
Push off.
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