I tried to write a poem
But it was rambling and pointless
And now I find myself

Rambling

Pointlessly

About a poem that doesn’t exist

The sun set over the Hamptons that night,
A golden egg cracked into the ocean,
We napped on the beach. Goose bumps. Wrapped tight,
Warm blanket. Waves. Shared ear buds. She sang
solely for us sitting so comfortably
on the precipice of forty. If only
we had known this would be the best day,
we could have begged the dripping sun to stay
afloat but then we would have always known
the sun will never rise as high or shine
as brightly as it did. Each day a slow
erosion of the New York coastline,
degradation of the mind. Please remember—
even when I don't—our summer in September.

I take my self-identity
from the ability to
Imagine the immense
Complexity: and my failing
Ability to convey
It

I had a dream, yesterday, 3:33 in the morning.
The witches — they play with me — with my mind.
By the river that flows beneath the ash on an island in the sky.
They take me to a place that I have sought but can not find.
Where a river flows beneath the ash on an island in the sky.
They hang me from the tree, stick blades into my side. My blood — it fills the well until all the secrets rise.
Until all unknown I find by the river that flows beneath the ash on an island in the sky.