Prying

Some eyes spy
prying
into your very soul

yet these
are like Lord Sauron
with his slit
of an eye

who himself has no love
for those who spy and pry
and others peer
out at you sneering
through lace curtains
whether Scottish
or Nottingham
London
or Madras

it does no good
to try
to hold
inward and outward
most marvellously
together

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which is what poets
and ironists do
when they
chance upon
strange contrarieties

or happen upon
the subtle humour
of a backward glance

but happenstance
the way
property is
to possession is
nine tenths
of the law
and possession is
never simple
unless
to those
who smoke

so try

if you dare

to return the stares

tracing you

following the contours
of your shape
of the shade
of your mind

capturing what they see

and not what they

or you

think they see

merely shading
around the teapot
and guessing the object
from handle to spout

and

take no notice
of eyes
that are less
than honest
and cunningly hide
more than they show

and be not
passively
taken aback
by the nervous coughs
of casual treachery

do not avert

your eyes

even if you are

bashful or shy

you will not capture

his soul

or make him fear

like wolf

or a dog

falling back

not

on his training

but

on his instincts

when you look at him headlong

and maybe you'll pry

with Socrates
the shadow
that dogs
his every step
his daimonion

and while
you are negotiating
and handling
the untangling
of your own demons
from your back

lovingly unwrapping
the arms of the monkey
and the dog
and the weasel
who turn your mind
and twist your smile
and circle their
pseudopodian wagons
as much to keep you in
and hold you out
and at once learn

the secrets of prudence

what to hide

and what to show

and experience true guidance

what to do

and not do

and shift the earth

with Archimedes

off of its axis

with the fulcrum

of your mind

and let it drift

weightlessly

like a leaf

on a stream

finding its way

feeling the current

without faking ease

or suffering disease

or escape

from gravity

and Van Allen belts

and all that
holds you
to the book heavy karma

that is earth
or America
as everything new
to him
was
to Columbus

now like Sputnik

in '57
find
a new perch
or catbird seat
placing the angel
atop the Christmas tree

and grasping
at invisible tethers
that stop you
from catapulting
to the next nearest star
or drawing you in
to orbits
more familiar
that decay
as you run
spending your fuel
like a greyhound
chasing mechanical rabbits
around a course
that changes direction
after each lap

and when
at last
you find
your place
stretched by time
and made light
by the constants of speed
or infinitely heavy
by masses
that fold in
on you
when you are
singularly kept
in check
by blackholes
and other unfairnesses
of the night
at such times
think
about the stages

that fell away
as you broke free
and made
your own space
a newcomer
in a large family
too proud
and loving
to complain
they hadn't enough room
for another one
and so
you stay awhile
bide a wee
and like
a Scots conductor

you put
the earth
and its instruments
in mixty motion

one last time.