the novel one

he thought
a thought
that had no history

the novelty
made him warm

he let it go
he had to
with no follow up

no after
no residue

he only knew
that he had thought it
when he stumbled
over a now-empty space

he only knew
when it had

he would have liked
to know it
more intimately
to really get
what it was about

but the wind
whistled by
where it had been

and left him wondering

what was my
novel thought?

what did it endure
before it reached me?

how long was it here
while I ignored it?

if it comes by again
how will I know?

how will it change?

will it come back to me?

will it ever


Poem #520 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

4 thoughts on “the novel one

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