Twelve years making poems, this
be the ten thousandth . . . all for
my beloved, who has read
not a single syllable.
Still, it is from her very
bosom that every just word
doth come ever arising,
like some great flood of Noah.
So you might find it odd how
all the words flowing through these
fingers have not yet healed me
of my human brokenness . . .
the hallowed cancering cells,
arthritic pain, faulty teeth.
While I, all the while, all round,
find myself lost in mists of
everpresent awareness.
A grin—whether out or in,
’tis impossible to say . . .
but like a will-o’-the-wisp—
traces the arc of a life
beyond its own bits of wit,
awakened from its slumber
with ne’er a fear, the Big Sleep.
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