Flummoxed: A Poem

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Flummoxed

The intractability
of this position
leaves me flummoxed.
Floundering about
for some frame of reference
into which I can put
these notions.
This disconnect.

For that’s what it is,
you know?
You know.
Ideas take investment
investigation.
Invitations must be written
to others
for participation.

So I am caught
between befuddlement
and Vine.
Waiting for a reason.
Waiting for reason.
Like a bus that is behind
and the rain is not abating
here

where I stand.
Where we stand.
Tumult in clouds pregnant
with precipitation
seem portentous
only if we let them.
Only if we see birth
as an act of violence.

Baptism by water
or fire?
Choices lay out before us
with beckoning eyes.
Come hither eyes.
Shall we scorch the earth
and set ablaze the sky?
Or wallow in the spring’s font?

Flummoxed.

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