He speaks of poetry and the words slip from his mouth
like wisps of smoke curling in the still air, nothing
breaking the purity of the breaths released when
his lips form vowels singing azaleas, hollyhock,
and primrose. The lips lightly press together to form
those brief interruptions in speech, but oh you
can breathe in the aromas from the hillside that
he breathed during those golden Marin mornings,
when his mother’s clammy palms pressed upon his shoulders
gently like the misty Pacific breeze tickling the whites of his eyes.
I’ve been reading all morning thinking
Of the stream of thought. And how
When the words on a screen are
Placed together and when our
Eyes move from line to line the
Stream is disrupted, or maybe it
Is flowing more clearly more
Beautifully from line to line like
The ocean rippling waves that
Don’t seem to be leading to the
Shore when they are resting amongst
The green of the sea, but all lovely ripples
Lead to the shore — some times.
I sought for your soul
But instead I found love, the two contend
For control and time
It feels its death in the autumn, when life is
The most harlequin.
And when we watch the green in the East
Penetrate Love’s dried clay sheet,
That makes us forget that the light is leaving.
We are enamored by the charade,
Distracted until the grey blurs
And hides the sea, but in the shadow,
There can be you and me.
I wait for this moment when the grey hits the waters
And the waves cease to tumble;
The sirens no longer sing their song,
Because sailors cease to sail.
Fish swam to the depths, but held onto a hook
So it couldn’t go too far.
O! The beauty of the hook!
The anise-flavored hemlock …
Is it the shock that collapses this scheme
Into a singularity?
or the infinite that does not exist
Speculation frightens the mind to become mute.
Marko Gluhaich is a contributor to The Weekender. Contact him at [email protected]