Sharp absence – drop –
no dream: just blank.
This glass of milk –
this mother’s brew she drank –
less strengthened than effaced her.
What had she ever been?
Where had it gone? –
she felt no blast, no spin –
no remnant quivers of a unity.
Something seemed to steal it.
She had to have had life,
but couldn’t feel it.
Remembering His Alzheimer's
Personify his fractured
bits of thought –
in cartoonish sticky
fly paper – not quite
breaking through, like
so much daffy taffy –
cute. Make it seem
like it was not
his being going mute.
Life sits there like a grand poobah,
wondering whether to drink
the blue drink.
Too much to think
about. A silent rout
of unconsidered slaves behaves –
enacts the necessary lifts and saves.
Ground is cracked.
Maybe the Day is a Dream
I have to have some Edgar Allan Poe
in my Emerson. I have to have the thing
that patently will never go next to
the thing that always will. I have to have
some bars upon the window sill
through which to see the bluest freedom.
I have to know the worst and best,
and see them. I cannot not transgress
and always will pursue a blessing.
Sexually I am irredeemable: and
in my heart I laugh as lightly as a baby.
Maybe the day is a dream. Blinding
bright to make exciting contrast with its
darkest seam. Look at it gleam!