"Granted I am a babbler, a harmless
vexatious babbler, like all of us. But what is to be done if the sole vocation
of every intelligent man is babble, that is, the intentional pouring of water
through a sieve?"
- Dostoevsky, Notes from the Underground
Eight hands motion above the blanket
dividing the air, organizing musings,
syncopated to each voice.
Shadows appear like handmade ships
floating upon the quilted seascape as
smoke, rising from cheap cigars,
ascends from each ship’s smokestack-
this Hyde Park scene of seafaring battle.
Conversation breaks, then recedes.
Meaning rolls like soft waves across the fabric,
ever visible, forever immeasurable like
the continuous pouring of water through a sieve.
dividing the air, organizing musings,
syncopated to each voice.
Shadows appear like handmade ships
floating upon the quilted seascape as
smoke, rising from cheap cigars,
ascends from each ship’s smokestack-
this Hyde Park scene of seafaring battle.
Conversation breaks, then recedes.
Meaning rolls like soft waves across the fabric,
ever visible, forever immeasurable like
the continuous pouring of water through a sieve.
