The Ship


The ship

was not wrecked

but ceased to enjoy

the sea

and its own

wholeness

 

As on a by-passed day

when the Self

so willed

to find a sharp

and 90 degree meeting

and rest there

a bit

facing away

from the room

it also created

when action

overpowered

planning.

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Too illuminated to defend  . . .

 

Shacks of former palaces

too filled in hubris

to go without for a night.

 

Too dark for offense

 

the new moon cast obsidian on

the troops

 

Stole plate –no, saucer-

from the sky

as soldiers wait

for tea and coffee

to be served.

The table was wiped clean

for sommelier to present

the next bottle,

 

Rioja spilled on the ground

 

The soil took it in

as mystics did other wine

with the scribes

centuries before when the levanter

blew in

the familiar scent

of home

on their new houses.

Subject To Time


 . . . eyes stained with clouds . . .

-Joseph Brodsky, “Törnfallet”

 

And smeared with the smoke of tailpipes

are the legs

all the way through

these brand new jeans.

 

The chest took a bullet from the expanse

and left it blue

to prove that space

fills everything

 

And distance is not subject to time

they’ve been

discontinued.

Get used to it as eyes drift from books

and up to the sky

Anything can change

even if only

for a trial run.