I suspect this poem has to do with recent discussion of the coherence or
lack thereof of the self.
Place in the Sun
The attendant
mocks. Our disagreement,
says the attendant
to anyone who'll listen (and
they do listen), meanwhile
leaving the chair
anywhere, is fundamental:
"why should he think
pain is privileged, or the reified self?
Where does he
get off?" etc. … Break, smoke;
lunch;
flirtation with
a dog and its walker, another break.
It is a brisk blue day;
the buds outface
the wind as if
the sun, not
warmth, were all
they needed. Eventually a wrap
will be fluffed over
legs, the arms propped
in thinker-position. The face remains
mine, and
glad it doesn't tremble
or blink.
|