The Problem With Meaning
Meaning is an old shoe laboring on Mondays
to blister your walk on pathless grass.
A low-watt bulb tires of the news, but opens
an eye each time a paradigm shifts into view
and faith launches examinations,
accurate as heat-seeking missiles.
You recall everything, fall into a trap
of details. The best you can do is qualify facts.
Each word becomes a symbol for poultry, petals
or diamonds. Nothing is pinned to corkboard.
Tomorrow the papers get thrown out. Despair
solves one part of this agony as you see possibilities
when a look over the shoulder divines
a bloated construction, approaching ripe as a fig.
Being is not doing as the philosopher suggests.
Sit for a time in the salon of interpretations,
try to secure the perimeters of wind.
Qualm forms a sheltering impass
for hinge and proviso, points its wet finger
at the enigmatic apple. It won't be long
before your lamb is brought to the stone,
before you wipe away the allegations
you find on your shoes.