by Bruce Spang
Do you hear the soft ohhs in the mist?
These are sighs of God.
They do not matter to the man — late,
no doubt — who taps at his Rolex:
years tumble forward — already 2220,
2060; tomorrow flattens yesterday.
A solitary pigeon pecks at a crumb,
then flaps off, undulant in gray.
What whispers in this mist? — sighs
intoning, too late, too late.
No matter, these are only lines of I – Ching,
little sticks of metaphor.