Thinking is like walking, the next thought taken
like a step, balancing itself in equilibrium,
upstairs, or downstairs, in a creaking blue-brown house.
The moon daubs those walking shoes yellow,
as they step up or down, in the chilly passage.
Thinking is like swimming, upstream against a river,
moving one’s arms repeatedly in the very blue current,
surrounded by an element that forms around itself,
in cold and deep wakes, temporary or eternal.
Dip your hand in it or, better, your foot.
Thinking is like reading, the page loftily turned.
Watch it lift and fall back again, hello, goodbye,
its white page dancing with silly thoughts. The cover, the art on the cover,
the blurbs are all thoughts, each trying to be thoughtfully
bookish. I’m not sure exactly how thinking is like reading.
Where was I? Let’s just say
that thinking is like reading, swimming, and walking.
If you’d like to know why, write a poem about it.