We perceive

Within each other’s lives,
we perceive the young woman
through the veil of her old age
Here the streets are quite old and clean
Most of life’s responsibilities annoyed
him and he avoided them in slyness, reticence
and, as a last stab, with callousness and charm
I get lost sometimes in this quarry 
where I loved every inch of her
Entropy usually goes up, rarely stays down
“Lonely but free” it’s human nature that
suffers and our divine nature that doesn’t
When adults bitterly quarrel and decide,
nevertheless, to go on anyway they’ll
act as if nothing’s gone wrong and
nothing changes—yet, if you told
Dad you had an itch he’d advise
you to scratch it and if you said
“My arm hurts”, he’d tell you your
arm had a cold, so be tough—if wise
enough, Dad was no doctor
All their world’s to be found 
in a grain of sand—That’s a kind
of humility isn’t it? Our laws are
laws in reverse but time is lawless
and doesn’t reverse— Time’s the trickster
who doesn’t care who he hurts but time’s
greedy and we’ll usually beat him
We hurt each other when we play 
the trickster in this wild, wormy world
of memories and regret, with vast spans
of time before we’re born and vast spans of
time after it—here nothing’s divine,
eternal, no forever and our bodies have
no corners, the animals have no
corners, even the insects are round
Ours is the art of continuous variation
The Indians say that if two people
love each other eternally they’ll
come back to this earth as twins—
sometimes in two bodies and sometimes
in one body to fight together and live
in this rugged, tough, indifference
For these twins the very rocks live—
all of this world in specks of dusty stone
When you lured me into to your life,
hot to get what you wanted, and  
then kicked me out to a quarry of
vicious, dangerous, jealous stone
was your war, as the sycophants say,
short, glorious and oh so cost effective?
We don’t choose whom to love
in our blood, we’re just born that way
Animals differ from one another—
some build nests and some don’t
some live in caves, others in bushes
Some even get along with no
kind of home—free from arid
formulas, spontaneous, their after-
thoughts fleeting, ambitious
We see an ugly ogre’s face
in the smoke as sycophants  
collapse within us, pollute our
air, as we try to catch our children before
they fall—A clown’s a funny man, that
trickster, a tragic man all the same—joy
and sorrow paints his face, joy and pain
at once—Nature’s neither sad nor glad,
it just is and my fine lady?—she still has
that spark in her eyes, it never dies

-December 14, 2018-