V  P  R

Contemporary Poetry and Poetics





We are circling Saturn in its rings.  Last year 
I watched our pet machine clamber the rim
of a ditch on Mars.  Tonight I hear dogs argue
with each other through open windows.
What do they say?  I'm here, you're there.
Where is the moon?  I watch a tyrant
thousands of miles away rage and blink,
showing how deep his ignorance of what
he really did lies buried.  Beyond the planet
knowledge is never cheap, but here
it costs in pain and the slow process
of discovery.  They tell me Neolithic men,
constructed like myself, found refuge
in fermentation.  Yeasts break down
juice that we in our groping lift and taste
and take with us into the night, hoping
it carries enough of the sun that grapes
absorbed to light us onto the slope
of another day where maybe
what we learn is what we need. 

© by T. Alan Broughton


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