IN THE CAVE OF CONTEMPLATION
By Michael Mirolla
For whoever wants to pick up the torch
When speaking – in the short squint from forenoon
to gloom – of Updike, where am I headed?
There are days that fit me into foot paths
no longer present, beyond metaphor.
Here, leaves continue to pulse long after
they’ve sunk to mulch. Here, the ball’s solipsism
arcs from hand to sky and back in deltas
of stillborn time. Here, waves flick their tongues
and brush clean the ravages that gather
around us in the day-to-day. I find
myself standing bemused. In someone else’s
past? A park? A bench? Schoolyard children skip
into old age, run through brick walls … ascend
to hallowed ground. An abandoned tire
comes to rest on its flank. Oil-skimmed water
quivers in a rubber pool. Sunlight sparks.
I kneel. Plunge my hands into silt to scoop
the sacerdotal larvae. To hold them
towards the fierce radiance. They shimmer
for a still moment before vanishing.
I, on the other hand, am still here. Trapped
thinking of Updike … rabbits … afternoons
that taste precariously like dust.
