This blog ran for more than two years with no graphics--and it received about 50 page views. I was advised to add graphics; after seeing the huge public that followed blogs dedicated to homoerotic images, I decided to use that kind. The result was a dramatically increased number of monthly page views, and the number has remained fairly steady. Most of the images were found on the internet; although they are assumed to be in the public domain, they are identified as far as possible. They are exhibited under the “Fair Use” protections of United States copyright law: their function is simply to attract readers to the poems--I receive no economic benefit from them or from the blog. Nevertheless, they will be removed if they are copyrighted and the owner so desires.
Wednesday, September 26, 2018
The conclusion that I have not been able to avoid is that none of the passers-by sees either this pool or me. No one ever seems to stop by the low, round curb; nobody, as far as I can tell, even glances this way.
One can’t blame them—it’s not the sort of thing that calls attention to itself; it is, one would almost say, non-descript. Neither large nor small (although its width does not permit one to reach across it), apparently it is not wide enough to allow the formation of ripples; none is ever seen.
Within the low circle of bricks around its rim, the water is almost as invisible as if the pool were empty. No light is reflected from the surface; nor, if I should lean over it, would I ever see my own reflection. It reflects nothing.
I don’t know how deep it is, or where the water comes from—if, after all, the liquid in the pool be water. It is not unlike ether or alcohol in its lack of density, except that it has no properties or effects, not even that of annulling sensations. It is perfectly colorless, absolutely odorless and tasteless.
I do not wish to be here, but I cannot move away, unable to decide; I cannot stop dipping my hand to drink, never feeling either thirsty or satisfied.