Existentialism in Springtime

How I know it is real
and how I know I am I.

Spring runoff flowing sweetly
through the roadside ditches
with these particular details:
that preternatural shade of green
that is anything but; clear plastic
water bottles and blue aluminum cans
in the tangle of leaf mold; the blur
from atop my moving bike
that makes me dizzy and aware
in that very moment that I am
truly alive, this one immaculate day.

The mole over my lowest right rib
that a bluegill once nipped
and the arrow-shaped scar
that points to it like the dipper
to the pole star, and the color
and curve of my penis.

This emptiness, a mix
of habitual sadness and
the more specific numbness
of grief; the scent and flavor of it:
blur, and mold, and pole star.

The firm hold on the handle bars
that steers me between the speeding cars
and the slow careening to the ditch.



About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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