Even if the world wants matchsticks, we are branched like the trees.
Even if the world wants order, we are formed by nothing but the wind.
Continents appear in the time it took for this long line to be written.
Their edges, rocky and variegated, roped with vines and barnacles,
descend in slopes of rock-face down into the water.
All these sea-changes, green-blues and brownish purples…
And even if it were possible to count them all
it still wouldn’t be enough:
ourselves, ourselves, strangers to the here,
would always be chanting the could-have-beens.
What does this have to do with anything?
My heart feels like a sad dog.
Can I leave it behind, face the light’s gull-shriek?
Empty my pockets of the grey grief-lint,
while the sky does it daily dazzling dance?
I want to romp on some faraway island of myself,
and cue some beautiful, epiphanic music.
The water would come in and out, towards and away
like moving accordion music, like perpetual sex,
and the sun would interrogate everything.