Proof

I would like all things to be free of me,
Never to murder the days with presupposition,
Never have to feel they suffer the imposition
Of having to be this or that. How easy
It is to maim the moment
With expectation, to force it to define
Itself. Beyond all that I am, the sun
Scatters its light as though by accident.

The fox eats its own leg in the trap
To go free. As it limps through the grass
The earth itself appears to bleed.
When the morning light comes up
Who knows what suffering midnight was?
Proof is what I do not need.

Copyright © 2004 Brendan Kennelly All rights reserved
from Familiar Strangers
Bloodaxe Books/Dufour Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission