Should things become blurred
by a brain dissolving, a mind
slowly letting go of itself,
may it be a beautiful blurring,
as on nights around the Christmas tree
when a nearsighted boy, glasses off,
could lose himself in a world awash
in softly blending orbs of color,
or like London lights unfocusing
toward each other on a foggy night.
Should the sharp edges between events
begin to fade, event joining event
in a seamless tapestry of time,
may it be an oceanic fading,
as raindrops join a river joining an ocean,
or as receding waters reveal
an archipelago to be a mountain range.
Should words break rank
and wander bravely on their own
or travel obliquely as groups of strangers,
may they be loved for who they are –
world makers, songs without melodies –
no longer implements in the mind’s
wolfish conquest of the world.
Should things become blurred,
I pray you let go of sense, of fear, of pity,
if they will not stand aside for love.