|
8:22 AM, EST
Leaning into the wind of
today,
I realize that this moment
has been built up to by all human history.
Every assassination, street fight, world war
happened so that this moment could exist.
Every day of struggle, peace, apathy
was in preparation for today.
(Now I’m supposed to tell
you
to seize the day,
to hold each moment like a dying lover,
but I don’t know why I
should.
This time, this place
may be another crescendo
building up for some colossal moment
yet to come,
an instant when all the
world will stop
and people will stare towards the sky,
feeling so grateful and confused.)
FOLDING LOVE INTO WORDS
You gave me a fistful of
contentment
that I clutch in the depths of my pockets,
but the steady line of your affection
became the flat line of my muse.
The mass of this feeling
is enough
to cause Earth’s gravity to spike
and pull in the moon.
Yet the words I write about it
are flimsy paper
airplanes
I toss out my window, in your direction.
They flutter to the
ground without
reaching their destination
(you find them piled up at your street corner
and still you think they’re sweet):
lame, crippled words that easily
blow away in this hailstorm
of others’ poetry.
If I could turn our love
into a poem,
each word would be folded up and thrown into the sky,
where they all would float,
continuously rearranging themselves.
|
