Marginal Note

TWO POEMS

MARGINAL NOTE

From the inside looking out

who knows what it's all about?

Who knows when the bomb is gone

what will flower on the lawn?

. Senses fashioned in the mud

now stir blindly in the blood,

drive us blinded into space.

Runners cannot name the race.

Even while the lights are lit

who can see the shape of it

forming in the tunneled night?

Who can measure dreams with sight?

Bombers swimming through a cloud

mark their passage with a shroud.

Yet the shrouds of greed remain

fearful specters in the brain.