Sunday, 6 April 2014

5. Kierkegaard

Kierkegaard is dead
and buried beneath
pink trees. Poor
Kierkegaard. I bet
he has no idea that
spring has finally
hocked up daisies.
I bet Kierkegaard
hasn't changed his
watch yet, hasn't
scavenged one more
hour for lolling.
I wouldn't be surprised
if Kierkegaard still
had his winter coffin.
That guy never notices
shit, never gets a round
in--I don't mind
Kierkegaard but I wish
just sometimes
he would stop. Take
stock. Open his eyes.
Kierkegaard is in
the midst of cherry
blossom as heavy
as a grown panda
and Kierkegaard
doesn't even notice.
I don't mind, but
I'd hope that if I
were Kierkegaard
I'd be better. I would
notice the cabbage
white butterflies.
I'd pay attention
to the coming of spring.

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