A lamppost named Mark
this is part three of the Lamppost Poem,
start from the beginning.
by Paul-Newell Reaves
III.
You know, perhaps—
perhaps you know—
there are so many lampposts…
One hero must have caught the hovering train,
escaped his fate, so late, so late,
at night, night-night, at night.
On dark, speeding train, our hero, waiting,
watching lights casting shadows.
“Where to, Mr.?”
“The only place I ever go
no matter where I am,
elsewhere.
“Like beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
or consciousness evoking its brief lie,”
the Lamppost, half-blind, asked the starry sky,
“the blinking of my eye passes the time?”
Now on that train I cautiously awake.
Don’t give the dream time to evaporate.
Pick up my pen, scribble Defenestrate.
I smile, then laugh, and wakefulness forsake.
My lamppost hero journeyed ‘cross the sands—
deserted desert cut by canyon ridge—
he dangerously danced along the edge.
This precipice cannot be crossed by man.
“Unless the time that travels makes me man,
enough to make the cliffs become the sand.”
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