Reduced to Perfect Expansion — Grammar for Mystics

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

It’s quite a trap, you know, this seeing of

The universe contained within a grain

Of sand, the sending of a thought above

A wildflower, forcing mind and heart to strain

To hold infinity upon your palm,

Pretending that eternity is in

This single hour.  Temptation tunes a psalm

Of all this struggle — and this is stupid sin.

We only need to focus on the sand

Highly magnified grains of sand

Itself, the flower itself, palm’s DNA,

Our hour itself.  The meanings here are grand

Enough.  The gods have nothing more to say.

  Or if they do, ignore them.  Double down

    On facts, on facts.  They make the huge mass noun.

© Phillip Whidden