A Way of Life

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‘My life is what I have done, my scientific work.’
— Carl Jung

Is this a way to live a life,
by experiment?
Leper-pulling toes and nose,
earlobes collapsing
like the petals of a rose,
soul’s wick burning in a jar
of methylated spirits?

Life might be attempted by cosset and repose,
retreat and enclose;
the cork replaced in the bottle
of liquid, limpid with unused grace.

Stiff with lack of faith
I pace through my footfall,
a donkey tethered to a stone
never noticing that the world is round.

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