! ! The Hinterland

Poems have a hinterland. They come from a mind that’s left behind, a family, a tribe, a nation, in the dense equatorial forests of the human heart; yet in its backpack, precious souvenirs.. has trekked through swamps and uplands, dangers, adventures, pleasures, then the scorching arid desert sands, and there in front one day, the matter-of-fact sea, lapping with the lazy always-there… and leaning down, place nonchalantly the poem now a paper boat, into that glittering, faithless blue, launched to tide and wind; should you have put it in some green bottle, you who think it’s precious, with a name, address, so that they know how far it’s travelled…? Somehow, that matters little in this present moment, as the poem’s past prepares to meet its future self; Yet, you watch it, silent, ’til it disappears; how close, to children, is horizon’s curve.