A CONEY ISLAND OF THE MIND

Reading Ferlinghetti on my way

to the apothecary, I meet

a dog and his human

in the ravine before

the bridge over the falls,

the human trying to

move on, but the dog

enthralled by scents

stands enraptured

as I walk past reading

about San Francisco

and New York

and wondering

why Ferlinghetti thought

that Praxiteles

died at twenty-eight?

I walk over the bridge

over which

my own dog,

death in her body of

furry love,

refused to cross

on a winter night,

I walk over

water streaming

over rocks

that are always

the same -

it's not the water,

Heraclitus,

which makes

a river,

it's these cliffs

and rocks

and banks

that are the river.

The water,

like we humans

in the world,

is just

passing through,

movement

in the river,

like we

are movement

in time.

As an orphan

I will come

to my death.

30.08.2019