“The Blackcap Wasn’t Killed”
The blackcap wasn’t killed
by a hunter, so far as I know.
Perhaps she died mid-morning. And I never
got the news. Regarding me, I suppose
she had lost all recollection. If some
ghostly presence flutters around here now,
I can’t capture it to ask: “Who are you?”
It may be that ghosts have no more substance
than a faint breath of wind. Perhaps I, too,
am just one of these puffs and don’t know it,
a breeze so light the cardboard stage-set
that surrounds me manages to stand upright.
To destroy it will take different gusts entirely.
Where will they take refuge then, these stray
bits of gossamer? There exists no science,
philosophy, theology that concerns itself with them.
The Allegory
The meaning of the plot is unclear
even to those whom it concerns.
We’re just supporting actors, prompters in the pit,
but the story line is in the hands of others.
Clearly we’re dealing with an allegory
lasting an infinitude of centuries, assuming
that time exists, or rather that it is not part
of some great machination, divine or otherwise.
There are those who posit thingamajigs causing
the whole of everything to collapse into itself.
But you don’t believe this. The rapture of lunatics
is somebody else’s business.
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