Jealous of the sea.

He was always jealous of the ocean,
How could he write songs like the waves?
The timpani drums on the breaking tide,
Crescendos written on corral staves.
Harmonizing whistles from a shoreline quartet,
And the gentle reeds blow a soft minor key.
How could he ever write songs like the ocean,
How could he ever compose like the sea.

The heart can think of no devotion
Greater than being shore to the ocean—
Holding the curve of one position,
Counting an endless repetition.

in the rain-
darkness,     the sunset
being sheathed i sit and
think of you

the holy
city which is your face
your little cheeks the streets
of smiles

your eyes half-
thrush
half-angel and your drowsy
lips where float flowers of kiss

and
there is the sweet shy pirouette
your hair
and then

your dancesong
soul.     rarely-beloved
a single star is
uttered,and i

think
       of you

If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.

Sometimes I draw things.
Not much, not really.
But recently, I've tried people.
Because that's something real.
Like, take a tree, for instance:
Sure, it's alive, and beautiful.
But it's never going to tell me a story.
It won't teach me a lesson.
It can't bare its soul.
So when you draw it, it's just a tree.
But a person, see, that's different.
You draw a smile or a frown or a laugh,
And that's them, in that moment,
In that hour.
You draw eyes and there's something behind them.
And that's beyond beautiful.
And when you draw someone you already think is beautiful, well,
That's sublime.
It's beyond anything.
The moment isn't enough.
The hour isn't enough.
The drawing will never be enough.

all things reconciled within love
hearts expand
like the ever expansive Universe
from which the fleshy parts
are made
and the spirit glimpses, somehow
the eternal from a single point
in space and time, called love.

it can be surprising to learn that the person you cannot stand is loved just as much as yourself