Failure, worse failure, nothing seen
Too much seen in the ditch.
Those who will not look
Tho they feel on their skins
Are not pierced;
One cannot count them
Tho they are present.
It is entirely wild, wildest
Where there is traffic
‘Thought leaps on us’ because we are here. That is the fact of the matter.
Soul-searchings, these prescriptions,
Are a medical faddism, an attempt to escape,
To lose oneself in the self.
The self is no mystery, the mystery is
That there is something for us to stand on.
We want to be here.
The act of being, the act of being
More than oneself.
Copyright © by George Oppen.