Shell

Turn a card, turn a page, the action

sure to start, second-stage reaction

to illogical thoughts on random lines

in a Borges dream we move toward

the writing of lives.

Leave it out, leave it in, no edits -

with a shout, with a grin I said

it was a certainty that I'd arrive

in an Escher sketch we walk around

the drawing of lines.

The character uncertainty

as he contemplates his lot

and tries to move with urgency

though he's rooted to the spot.

On the brink, on the edge, but lately

what I think, what I said escapes me

in a flash, a tiger burning bright

does the visionary trance obscure

the burgeoning night?

And she said "What are you doing?"

And he said "What do you think?"

Oh, no,

what on earth are we doing?

The characters procrastinate

on the threshold of the door;

there's something here that fascinates,

though the meaning's still unsure

and the plot so thick...

is it some kind of history?

Sketch the thumbnail to the quick.

Oh, even though it's full of contradiction,

though it's flawed in the design

this is no fiction, it's a lifeline.

Here we are, there we went, full circle

shooting stars, heaven-sent, turned turtle

on the beach are shells are left behind

life a library, like a memory

of our ghost-written lives.