The buffeted bay
it's waves twenty feet
from peak to peak
give sweet shake to my knees
and care not for resistance met
holding the voice of the sun
in a long cold sentence.
FOMO
What Happened Tonight
I apprehended Quevedo's blood red moon
first through the words of Borges,
and tonight through my own eyes.
Only one moon was apprehended, yet it died twice.
(I cannot quote Borges precisely, and I turned my attention to dinner).
In our fear we miss the feast,
this one that Death has brought us to.
This brief and insignificant joy
that fades to memory again and again,
squandered by most (myself included), in exchange
for some cheap or easy certainty.
Without gratitude for Death,
who is surely our host,
what humor can our selves, our ideas
hold if they must live forever?
What binds?
Just as the moon pulls,
the water does as water will,
through its own
relationship to gravity.
1/4/16
What track is empathy’s?
Bare recognition
suited to a purpose, or
love dashing an idea.
The ocean does not suffer such,
nor does the sand.
On Metrics
What standard of beauty
Do you hold?
A pretty face,
the perfect curve
Of a lip,
or a hip's beckon?
The flower blooming
In ecstasy,
Or perhaps
The bomb booming
in rapture?
Or do you have in mind
Some vaster space
That quickens beauty's face
As it drops all appearance
And now,
And then again.
Early January
Notes From the Polar Vortex
When a Great Lake shows
imperfect orbs of dirty ice,
And a small one gives
hydraulics a new expression,
Those afflicted together
huddle for warmth, not love.
The amorous face will appear here,
And this is one of love's flaws,
Or love's suffering of idolatry.
Water and everything (with the exception
of my meager suffering)
do not seek the appearance of love.