top of page

Socratic Soliloquy

By Catherine McGuire

--

I watch bubbles swirl and pop;

the dish soap’s tensile strength

allows a bubble long(ish) life

 

to travel across the Sea of Sink

skirting submerged cups, greasy pots,

bouncing off other bubbles, large or small

 

silver-pink domes dancing, sudsy arcs,

eyeballs peering into the world

wildly reflecting their tiny seascape,

 

precious, precarious,

mysterious, random –

oh god, just like me.

 

I remember a stoned evening, mesmerized

by their elegance.

I remember other days, morose

at their brief lives.

 

For what was this bubble-brief beauty made?

For what was awareness; my entanglement

with foreboding, foreshadowing, fore-anything

set in motion?

 

These bubbles are nothing;

these bubbles are the essence

of what I must understand.

Commentaires


bottom of page