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Unfinished thoughts of a convex mind


by Samuel Derrick Rosen


All things unreflected must reflect into themselves.
Sometimes the written rule becomes the rule unwritten.
Within a thing constructed of a plenitude of cells,
we for now are unperceived, we for now are hidden.
 
As if everything in this town can hear us we sigh,
the mind is its shepherd, it shall not want,
for any kingdom, low or high,
there is one infinity we always haunt,

an infinity we felt, belonged to us, that we could alter,
that we might form into a helix,
one that would lead us to quiet water,
and cultivate the virtues of the phoenix.

In this place, where apples and oranges rain down,
in this place, that should be drenched in eucalyptus,
all are chained to absence, and bear false witness,
every gaze an aversion, each verb a noun.

Watch now these eyes that masquerade as stars.
Watch now these stars that masquerade as eyes.
The town clock chimes to strains of blue guitars.
The dream of life is the dream of death, why then such surprise?
 
Dying now by glass when once they lived by sand,
these empires put together, merely a fraction of a god.
I, abstraction, you, concreteness, two truths that vow to stand,
neither one of us yet willing to admit that we are flawed.

Inside this place where nothing is designed,
where a single everything plays its part,
we, the half beats of a concave heart,
unfinished thoughts of a convex mind.

Once more again, the town clock chimes,
it has chimed for centuries, beyond these auras and these cages
it chimes, beyond these reasons and these crimes.
It is sound and sound alone that never ages.
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