[5/22/14 – inspired by Marianne Moore’s “What Are Years?”]
They tell us of complex emotions without
explaining systematically, not structuring symmetrically,
our logically impossible heart-pulsations.
The desire of mankind is a whimsy, laughable
thing to see, for I cannot know it, shape it, see it, say it
well at all –– the articulacy of my valiant endeavors
stutters and wanes and spitters into
a weary-eyed query to my father the architect:
how do these unforeseen contours evoke
such contradictory phenomena of feeling?
Silence, my initial feedback ––
some unmeasured, unremembered time afterwards
surfaces and floats a whisper as answer:
Orient your curiosity to the pure circular luminosity of the full moon
on a weary-eyed night such as this –– let it purge you, hear yourself think. . .
When the summertime has tumbled its circuit through ––
perhaps then I shall grasp the reasons for my contours
and make sense of cycling out the cardiac tension of my present meditations.
Reaching forth and digging heels with equal intensity is
a mystery unraveled only bathing in moonlight and listening
metanonsense 