Doug Bolling


You pondered the single light in the house
of memory, how it spoke to the cobwebs in their
silver reachings, how those long gone years clustered
around the god-like bulb much as tiring moths
searching for their inner true selves.
Sure, you stumbled on the threshold, almost lost it
in the foyer, but time travel is always a challenge.
And anyway you felt confident about reaching the
rear rooms hiding in their lost generation shadows
like polar bears trying to keep cool in all the melt.
You found stairs, landings, even the toilet plus all
those necessary philosophical matters whispering you
along in your naked peregrinations.
Not so much a barrage of messages but more a kind of
hum that began far away and carried several frequencies
on its intent wings.
More than words, more like the gnomics of Gertrude Stein
saying so much in so little.
Almost a laughter that plucked the angst from the
worry tree and cut it into pieces succulent to the
taste, something like a building wind that lifted
away the past and let some light in.