There is a quick sharp pull that one might feel, with it a weighted turn to finding brightness where there is none. I have Seattle to thank for this, but the home of ours must be built anew. And yet I am not in my method and have no sense of worship for the work or to erupt into a broken sense, but I am appreciating the copious sunlight with a startled turf-forming consciousness. You must take the fear of normalcy and the aerodynamics of emotions that fuel the sense of the present and jerk it to a gluttonous love. The wood pulp, the paper, the feeling of how-to ache of these conditions and do not permit the imagination to fold into its chamber. How do I turn this summer around? Is there still an I and no You in this problemed space? Can I sort through our shared moments without your orange pants, your color-blinded syllogisms, and hull of near-end turbulence? I reckon with these days and the practice of finding the sun to its glory so that whatever score I have to settle with sorrow does not affect germination thus far.
I find ways to keep a sense of peace
but it is not always easy; for example,
I can’t keep my questions tempered:
What kind of sun expounds its rays
upon the hills but then mutes
like an ordinary bulb, small
Moreover, what moon filters
the blistering whiteness of
snow so that it can only be seen
by the fiscally immune, enamored by the dully-noted?
Let me amble with Keats
and his wandering expression
and try to figure out if the poem keeps
me encased in the rapture for which
my dim external life won’t account.