I’ve been solitude’s
Groupie,
Clamoring behind
The long caravan of days,
Looking for
Vast,
Shore-like time
To stretch
Before my pen,
Like a nightingale’s muse
Utopian cravings
Of naked lyrics,
Fresh born and
Salient as the sea,
Washing,
Over tumbled fragments
Of being,
Pulled congruent
From the itching grains,
Of memories
Still inside their shell
I’ve ached to find that
Pearly stone,
In a frozen tundra
Lost to all sounds
But breath.

But, Time,
Gives flotsam and jetsam, Bumper car reality,
As I sit, in the crook of his elbow
Fumbling pens, and pages.
Incongruent thoughts like cluster galaxies I long to name,
But haven’t the moments to take a true likeness
Into the mirror’s chamber, before I’m ****** upon some other vista.
Race cars, and sirens, and something lost in the noise.

While I shift my balance
In order
To name,
These moments.
These Orions and Pleiades,
Frothy in the soup of beginnings,
And ends,
For they are my constellations
In the wide wonder
Of noisy breaths,
So half-kept
And unclean,
They face the page
In the jam-stained smile,
Of an impish motion becoming
Something.
And this verse,
Supposing at first
To stroll down one path,
Has chosen instead-
To laugh,
To be jangled away,
By the in-play
That fraction-moment’s make,
When side by side
They stay
Glorious
In change embraced,
Chaos unashamed.
So that poetry
So naively sought
has not the name
but all the heart.