Infinite Mirror

Reading a poem by Harrison about a Russian

poet named Yesenin who wrote his last poem

in his own blood before he hung himself…

Harrison a master troubadour was poor too

and depressed but wrote stunning words I 

wish I knew them both better so late to know

anything new just doors opening to other doors

as in a dream trying to go outside to green but

thwarted by repetition and keening drone of

history because we forget the mistakes we made

because the books were burned/lost in libraries/

in gleaming shuffle of bright shiny things we

grasp at like golden rings on a carousel always

slightly out of reach/no finish line with accolades 

just bread and thin soup which themselves almost

seem like a miracle at the end of days.