A PEDESTRIAN PAUSES ON THE PAVEMENT IN REVERIE

 

 This morning a heavy, heavy thought

seems to be weighing down on me.

 

I took it for a walk in a plastic bag,

and everyone I met seemed to feel it too.

 

I said to them, apropos of nothing:

“Forgive me, I’m not myself today.”

 

We presuppose a massive solidity

above us, below us:

 

Concrete slabs covering dirt and clay,

The waters of the firmament there in the Bible. 

 

You have often walked on this street before,

but the pavement never fell beneath your feet before.

 

How many times must one look down

before one can see the sky?

 

We live our lives spontaneously anyway,

even at the risk of plagiary.

 

But is it theft to breath a breath of air,

like everyone else does?

 

If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,

maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to take me to court!

 

And maybe I shouldn’t jump to conclusions

about my supposed creativity.

 

It’s all done with mirrors, you see.

There was no beginning, and this is the end.

 

Forgive me, I’m not myself today—

I’m nothing but my own reflection.