Of course they do still trouble me,
those internecine wars within,
the slews that seize an empty boat,
rocked by the play of harbor swells,
shunting the abacus of glass beads -
eyes love to interchange orbs
even in imagination with these
beads of time and memory while
the real runs quietly on and out -
past-passionate interpretations
as if chaotic strife might form
a settled rhythm one could croon to -
in Cockaigne* if primes revealed
their square-dance petticoat infinities,
gravity coronal with quantum as
twins submitting side by side
to have their long hair combed
were merging into one crackling
static -
____ knowing these will resume
when the wide hours once more
strand us for months each upside down,
top to toe, yet no pleasure's kink,
solitary sardines in separate cans,
my night to your morning and reverse.
...................
*Cockaigne or Cockayne was a mythical medieval land of impossible plenty.
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Wintering
PoetryIt's yet another MajorSeventh. Hop on the big shoulders and look ... Lastest poems are always posted last in my collections. Winter. So, expect sparse gardens, late autumn and wintry countryside, wry philosophy and humour, tenderness towards litt...
