By Thomas Page
Everything in its essence has a point
Somewhere on a quantifiable map
On this green rock in the black, a bluepoint
May hold all of the gravity and sap
Forces like saline water that pinpoint
Everything ever said into a snap
Of a shell sitting in sand at gunpoint
Of scheming poets taking it from strap
At their waist, a cowboy of the new West
In the movies of the past glorified
In tints of silver like the horse known best
In allusions in cracker barrels dyed
Sepia for old-times-sake—vision quest
Of yesteryears drawn from memory tried
Not realities true; history at rest.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 