The Problem of Pure Consciousness


Sunlight rivers through the shimmering 

Sycamore tree, pools on the ground,

Makes of shadow a living shoreline. 

I vibrate there. The juggler’s balls are

Frightfully high in the rarified air. Eight

Sheriff’s deputies in four cars came, but

They did not arrest me, nor did I give them

My confession. I offer that to you. Clouds

Dry all my pools of light, but I am not

Desolate. I vibrate to your whisper.

You arrest me. The cloud-blocked sun

Seeks land elsewhere, and can have it.


Poem by Santi Tafarella, 2011


See this poem as a Wordle here.

About Santi Tafarella

I teach writing and literature at Antelope Valley College in California.
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