Poetry

John Whitworth: Three Poems

Wittgenstein’s Beetle My mind is like a beetle in a box. I open up the box to see it go. It scuttles up and down and to and fro, Telling me everything I want to know. You have to be a hedgehog or a fox. My mind is like a beetle in a box. My universes are unnumbered clocks And every one displays a different face For each exigency of time and space, Another person and another place, Another bastard set of building blocks. My mind is like a beetle in a box. Beached and benighted by a paradox, Our…

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