A Shell Game for Lilyfly - A Poem
Ah! hyphenated lily
fly not in
quest of forgotten men
on sullen shores where
cognition mistakes shells
for flowers
and squeezes
ambrosia from the veins of ancient rock.
These grey men are
memories only, mere
vaporous thought, full of
the balm of loss—
never
will they be
recognitions,
never will they hearken your
heart
to the newness of
discovered mathematics,
never
will they know that
all digression is
recognition.
These men of shadow and mist
are cradled by our
grandmothers and
jealously guarded in the
darkest corners of the
tribal cave
where they
break shells of the sea
into enthralling
sinuous songs that
no one but them
will ever hear.
© Robert Cook