poem for leigh hunt :: prageeta sharma
I find ways to keep a sense of peace
but it is not always easy; for example,
I can’t keep my questions tempered:
What kind of sun expounds its rays
upon the hills but then mutes
like an ordinary bulb, small
and self-contained?
Moreover, what moon filters
the blistering whiteness of
snow so that it can only be seen
by the fiscally immune, enamored by the dully-noted?
Let me amble with Keats
and his wandering expression
and try to figure out if the poem keeps
me encased in the rapture for which
my dim external life won’t account.
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