Intellectuals dream of an escaped space
in which abstract perfection flowers up
through the faces of the seeming-simple:
thoughts too pure for style or system.
They would become a poem written
in the taciturn parchments of bus-riders' faces -
thus the scholar would like to believe
that his books beget a real sense of life, not just an ache.
Can you make a world of subway-trains
in which the act of riding-reading
becomes infinite, gentle existence
in se, in which the marvelous
parallels of cognition simply gaze,
smiling in the pacific sunrise?
By David J. JohnstonQLRS Vol. 12 No. 4 Oct 2013