Indulgence


I think in poetry –
like an evergreen tree
whose leaves shed the
seasons and cradle raindrops
before falling to nourish
the famished and quenchless
earth.

I think in poetry –
like grasping at straws in
a hurricane slipping through
my hands like the beginning
of dementia, words lost in
a catalyst of time, and memories
forgotten, holding to the
present, the now, minute by
minute.

I think in poetry –
the language of restless
souls, I’ve adopted as
would an orphan, and made
a home in my heart.

I think in poetry –
as would a lover trying
to balance lust with need,
to not deceive my affection
for the greed of intimacy.

I think in poetry –
believing in the impossible
with a strangle-hold on the
probable, wearing potential
like a wedding ring, married
to the existential.

If you think as I do,
then, we should embrace
our universe with the
nonchalance of a cadaver,
and the passion of circus
clowns with orgasmic
fetishes.

3/21/11