the poet speaks to himself 
(and the reader too)

          beautiful
     dead tree  
      blossoming

  all up and down    
       its trunk    
    great discs   
of fungi    
          supple, firm
    striped brown    
    & white

  nothing complex

     strange neither  
        you fool

       life & death
 death & life

 (so it is
    with you)


child's play

the game was 
simple: metal 
was safe.

we climbed along
the chainlink fence
leapt from there
to tetherball pole
avoiding the stones 
of the playground.

from concrete ledge 
of tetherball pole
to jungle gym 
our feet may have touched the stones 
just a little.

jungle gym to monkey bars 
(a cheating skip or two) 
across to
rusty merry-go-round 
creaking beneath our weight.

clinging to the bars
we 
laughed 
we
breathed heavily
we 
looked out across the vast
yawning expanse
of pebbles out toward
the equipment.

you looked at me.
i looked at you.
the merry-go-round
spun slowly.

you took your ring
from your finger
(was it real metal?
i asked) of course

you said. if together
we hold it like this
we can make it
across.

*

as an adult
if you choose to play such games
it would be reasonable
to expect to accrue
a heavy burden
of debt.


the cue 

question me not, friend
as to this knowledge
there is no reason
to discuss
just exactly what machiavelli was up to
in 1503

no sense in this feeling
the need to dig deeper 
concerning the nature 
of mirror neurons
their relevance to us now and theoretical function
in the life of early man

i am a poor creature
i do not know
what i do not know

it is an open question
whether i know
what i would claim to know

so still your tongue, friend
set down your beer
it's your shot
here's the cue:

focus now

you're solids

Shane Ingan is from Indiana and lives in Detroit. He occupies no position of distinction whatsoever and is working on a big book of poetry about vanity.