Jung Doubts
By Christopher Howell
It may not be possible to go deeper, beyond
or beneath anything but birds and their
little thoughts feathered among the leaves.
Perhaps we're stuck in the bruise of broad day
with its donkey cart clang and silence like a choir
of gestures
or an aerial view of schoolgirls spilling from a school.
Perhaps we will open the inner door and find no stairs
or an immense frozen stone pointing at its old friend
the moon of our echo
going round and round with little trays of sweets
remembered and given
casually
in the service of regret.
And though the deep rooms knock and sometimes sing
we can't help thinking what if our minds aren't really
anything? What if no one's there, dear lady
who lifts her arms up to our own, dear contused old man
whose tears run in the blackened street
we climb, convinced the beloved is behind us and our lives
before us in a shadow of the shadow of the light?
It may not be possible to go deeper, beyond
or beneath anything but birds and their
little thoughts feathered among the leaves.
Perhaps we're stuck in the bruise of broad day
with its donkey cart clang and silence like a choir
of gestures
or an aerial view of schoolgirls spilling from a school.
Perhaps we will open the inner door and find no stairs
or an immense frozen stone pointing at its old friend
the moon of our echo
going round and round with little trays of sweets
remembered and given
casually
in the service of regret.
And though the deep rooms knock and sometimes sing
we can't help thinking what if our minds aren't really
anything? What if no one's there, dear lady
who lifts her arms up to our own, dear contused old man
whose tears run in the blackened street
we climb, convinced the beloved is behind us and our lives
before us in a shadow of the shadow of the light?
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