Poetry by Joseph Carcel

To love is to act
convinced
old soliloquies are new, soft

touch of hand on cheek
is not a stage

direction, rush of thigh
upon thigh not
friction of tried tools

but discovery
that we are more
than bone and chitterling,
more than echo's ear.

Yet was Plato wiser than Hume?
Parched eye, dried touch
seek memory
of moisture,
mime of waterfall.

More Poetry
A Blind Mouse

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