fluttering

please don’t ask me if I have answered all the questions
the ones that flutter in the attic without space or time
I can not pretend the smell of baby doesn’t delight me
that the creaseless faces of young men doesn’t awaken me
somehow, somehow I flutter, I flutter
nervous to the sounds of my own voice, afraid to listen-
symphonies that quell desires, soften longings for flesh-
colored things, mainly the things that are seemingly free
I still have the dreams to make the world my own
I flutter, sometimes in spite of my mind, in spite
of CNN and Wall Street....flutter, flutter.
I used to love Hercules for his strength, now I
admire Zeus for all his mistakes, all his misplaced passion-
flutter, flutter- do gods flutter or is it human- like grace and faith?
I discern the plants I’ve planted with those I have pulled up
and I still believe the lies I tell myself to get from day to day.
I say to myself- You can live life without the flutter!
I try genealogy to tell me who I am, no flutter there,
just the facts, no flutter, mistakes or flutter, though flutter with wings
I do possess somewhere in my heart
-which exists only by fluttering-
I only have the past, you see, to tell me where I am,
like etchings in the wood, no fluttering, just tracing my existence
through bard’s language, hanging onto Keats instead of Freud.
I wonder if Freud ever fluttered like I still do when James Garner
wears red shirts on Maverick re-runs, the fluttering begins again.....