by Alexander Russo
Two horses grazing in a distant field.
Closer up, a few leaves twisting
on a branch.
The leaves begin to take on
A strange new presence: crinkled,
One resembles a monster,
paying off a bad Kharmic debt.
It groans, swaying back and forth,
like the broken hand of a pendulum.
Another, as hideous, pock-marked,
The more I study them, the more faces,
festering, doomed to Limbo….
or perhaps already in Hell.
Out of nowhere a robin flits up
to the glass, flutters around, seems
partly inside, then outside the window.
I rub my eyes.
Perhaps “reality” is perception, tricked
by colors of mind and imagination.
Last updated April 16, 2011