Don’t think about the freckles he, or she, Might have, or how much hair, how big a grin, Or whether swimming would come naturally, Or whether–it?–might play the violin. Don’t think of prom, don’t think of puppy love Or calculus, or snow, or spring in bloom, Or anything that might remind you of The future now contained within a womb. Don’t feel anxiety, don’t feel regret, Don’t fret about some otherworldly guilt. Don’t feel the bond of parenthood, don’t let Insane outmoded Don Quixotes tilt. At private windmills–don’t spill any ink Examining yourself. Don’t feel. Don’t think.
Posted on: Sat, 16 Nov 2013 19:19:35 +0000
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