|© Beth Roberts|
The mind's not distinct till you make it so,
made up of everything under the sun,
the sun, other bodies heavenly, illovely . . .
bore a hole in the mind, staring at the sun,
scrutinizing any other object, one
of any number of objects in a field, or the field . . .
the attraction a clearcut border
around which to arrange your arrangements,
the concomitant trickles of your enterprise.
But if what you have in mind is ill-conceived?
Too late then for the love tap, innocence,
too late for the hallelujah and halloo . . . .
But if you change your mind? . . . poor thing,
the shape of the mind's the same shape
as the quell of the sun's prefigured blow.