Driving

When the mind is a poem
rhythms bounce
and the poem revolves.

A mood is set
in blocks of flowing concrete;
discovery melds
with living flesh.

Breath handles the sequence in time;
the residue fades in and out
sleepily, with insignificance.

How many mornings
when the arranged scenario
blots out the meditated foreground;
the knowledge is there
but numbness protrudes in its place.

When the mind creates a poem
the world bounces
and bounces within.

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Page 19 (Black Book: Light Heart)