Poetry by Harold Strauss
The seeing have forgotten
That the world persists when they
Turn a corner or shut their eyes,
That the young woman they met
The other day was not conjured into being
By her falling in their glance
Any more than she was snuffed
Out of life by her falling out;
That the human drama in the marrow
Of the soul is not resolved by
Busying the mind with other things
Any more than a diseased man is
Cured by ignoring his sickness.
It’s the only thing I know to be true:
That things persist.
That things endure.
That things resound.
That things collide.
Like great celestial bodies
Which are left changed, be them
Larger or smaller or merely
Altered in course.
And that these are all the same.
Who was it who said that God is an earthquake?
If he is right, we are each of us a tremor.