It’s a ruin

Hair and beard alluded to here
Look, how his finger points upwards
It’s all complete though not entirely
there—the thing that makes it great is
a ruin from the start like the walnut
wrinkled face of a grotesque man’s age
as jellied light streaks from behind him

I won’t cry about my real troubles
so I cry about unrelated sorrows hardly
mine—She’s a free Indian spirit
Money, to her, is meaningless, tedious
work is a no-life, she needs to feel
the brutal outside cold and seeks the spirit of
circular paths instead of our safe square lives

The rot she drinks may finally kill her
I judge, reason and live for comfort
in boxes—each day’s rage and
uncertainty are contradictory narratives
held in my mind at once—a world
of simultaneous narratives as
she grazes and graces my life

A resigned, insecure curiosity,
a coarse kind of humility
our long and venerable history—
that part of her that can so easily
get on without me as I pause,
judge and prescribe—as I
sit and cry about nothing

One raw evening without even
thinking, I moved to close her
jacket to cover her neck from
the cold and she remarked on it,
that it was just like me to do that
I think about her at least once
a day, sometimes more, no

specific time, time’s random
Her spirit is everywhere
It’s my vision and my power
How quick the days go
Don’t let the smooth taste fool you
Tiny deviations in density, little
fractures, a little pizazz

wasn’t too much to ask for
Pleasure and pain are twins
and can’t be conjured, or made
plain, the one without the other
We went to Italy, Jamaica,
Peru, lounged together in the
Dominican Republic…

Sometimes it looks like a duck
Sometimes it looks like a hare
It won’t appear as both at once
but both of them are there
She called it “The black pearl”
I called it “The Sphinx”
Everything we know is everywhere

-December 1, 2018-