for months, I’ve wondered
about the whatifs and the howlongmustIwaits—
so tired, so frustrated, so impatient was I—
but on this evening, as the snow begins to fall,
I hear you cry and I realize

that it is not always about the questions we ask amongst our discontent,
but rather,
the answers we gather as we comfort one another:

we wrap warm woolen blankets around each other’s shoulders and
               we listen for the tea kettle whisper and
                        we hold hands
                     [just holding hands]
                     and wait for the right time for the other to speak.

because sometimes, getting what we thought we’d wanted for years
[so many tears, so many tears]
pales in comparison to helping someone else we cherish get through just one day.

so rather than asking the
whenwillyourealize or the
howcouldyounotnotice and the
whenwillyouwakeupandsee—
let us instead ask the
whatdoyouneeds, the
howcanIhelps, and offer the
{Iloveyou,nowwhat?}s

when you cry on the line—
the one we listen to, and the one we’ve both walked upon
(but never crossed)—
know that, yes, I’ve loved you for some time,
but I’m making the decision to be what it is you need
(whistle, whistle, whistle)
rather than begging silently for what I would like.

so sit down on that old porch swing, and stay awhile,
and wait for me to grab the hot water off the stove.

You will not tame this sea
either by humility or rapture.
But you can laugh
in its face.

Laughter
was invented by those
who live briefly
as a burst of laughter.

The eternal sea
will never learn to laugh.

When
                                                         ­                                                               wi­ll                                      *I

                ­                            




                                ­                      find

                               ­                                                         the­ true




                                                        ­                              meaning


of
       my
                                                              ­                                                                 ­                                       









                ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­             *life.?

Persecution is stalking me.
A blank future, its only child.
Rumblings of woe, it's all I see,
A world which is nothing but mild.
Nonetheless, I cherish this picture
Of doom and looming menace.
I deem it a heaven-sent treasure,
A cure for my insecurity crevice.

Three weeks gone and the combatants gone
returning over the nightmare ground
we found the place again, and found
the soldier sprawling in the sun.

The frowning barrel of his gun
overshadowing. As we came on
that day, he hit my tank with one
like the entry of a demon.

Look. Here in the gunpit spoil
the dishonoured picture of his girl
who has put: Steffi. Vergissmeinnicht.
in a copybook gothic script.

We see him almost with content,
abased, and seeming to have paid
and mocked at by his own equipment
that's hard and good when he's decayed.

But she would weep to see today
how on his skin the swart flies move;
the dust upon the paper eye
and the burst stomach like a cave.

For here the lover and killer are mingled
who had one body and one heart.
And death who had the soldier singled
has done the lover mortal hurt.

A waterfall of
finches flowing branch to branch
down the oak to feed.