So you're walking down the ... One "." at a time, wings, like scare quotes, folded... The dots down a salt-flat superhighway To the horizon line across, and inwards, Where is the end of the world? When does that line open up and we spill beyond, cupped in a question, When do we say rest? You with wisdom say that walking is a controlled fall, Alas there is no falling without ground, no fear, No control. In that sudden "V" shape birds make with open wings, when Out of the darkness cracks light in the distance, When all that we know, held in our hearts, is put behind us, Are you to be left behind too?
This poem a shorn sheep, with nothing to do but grow hair, and the shepherd tending her clouds, enough to make you yawn. Such a tired, old metaphor. Maybe the sound of pan-pipes will soothe the seeker of news. (But here’s the skinny: the Shepherd in the sky has a glass ceiling, see? Name’s Pan and he’s the god of shepherds I expect the Shepherd don’t like him much Makes fun of his goat head and calls him names like “devil” Trying to overthrow him maybe, become the God of All, see? Small wonder we sheep are deciding to overthrow the Shepherd now But Pan ain’t the top man, and there's no bottom to this spiral neither.)