And then the same sadness

And then the same sadness—
let it sweep over you,
let it come
Memory is our creation
happy and cruel at once
Our loneliness, intimate and aloof,
is like a mask in the shadows

On this glassy, opaque lake
each surface reflection distorts
in obscure recesses of a self and
there follows a pattern of light,
a veritable algebra of sensitivity
from which we project our now
into the past and future

What do we think of
when we think of death?
We can’t picture to ourselves
anything other than ourselves alive
When we think of death it’s our
lives we project like a man
who stares at dark skies

Scaly green weeds and at their
tips fiery, tough yellow flowers
I no longer believe that strangers
might possess unearthly magical powers
Some men are so sensitive to beauty
that they suffer more than others
when they find it in a woman

“I don’t do moderation” he says
Her long straight red hair past her waist
Now she stretches, now she runs
Like a painter who catches her
mid-motion, she’s the symbiotic
alien other, fertile, dangerous—
and then she’s so beautiful it hurts

When we live a long time
our memories intertwine
Tight-laced, attractive, complete,
this mental state is obsolete
We suppose that we know exactly
what things are and what people think
for the simple reason that we don’t really care

We put something of ourselves everywhere
We wish to be understood because
we wish to be loved and we wish
to be loved when we love
From this glassy mirror-like lake
from under our opaque surfaces, come
these, our own fiery, obstinate flowers

But should our hearts be roiled
our view is through a
dizzying kaleidoscope
It’s like a family reunion
with me and my dead brothers—
an illusion that soon vanishes
into the cold recesses of self


-September 24, 2016-