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.
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