Creation

It might be a blessing,
lying here, learning to see
the light in these trees.
Learning to love even more
what slips away--
philosophy, Latin,
faces caressed by thought,
an early Kandinsky
of a rider in a nightwood.

Here is the problem: how to live on,
muddled and ignominious,
awaiting the return of clarity,
remembering how it felt
to think on your feet,
to get it right, the ball
hitting the fat of the bat.

In dreams you still carry
the person you were,
the way we carry places,
expecting to see them
the first seconds we're awake.