Something other than itself
dogs by the sea so joyful they're teachers,
donkeys who move like little mothers,
people so strong they risk being kind.
I rise up from some small corner of a sea, an improbable
figure, run backwards, arcing into high blue with quillwater
winging its way down to settle as a cloud against a wet sky.
Shall I merely walk around this then? Stub my club foot
upon some squared-off block of unapplied dyslogic so
that I might sing my craven decry before all that conspires
to ignore me in this glass forest of tinderfelled houses?
None of this makes sense, I get that. It wasn’t supposed to.
It is malversed viscera in search of form and shape and
purpose as something other than itself and it has failed.
There are few things as kind as a stilling cessation.
At the shore, a retriever teaches us that the tide will be
thrown out of sight only to return like a bone for burial.
In time, what is dry will be wet will be dry yet again.
I will sit here and be with it like a stubborn mother.
January 29, 2014