The Devil and The Sea

Then there are all the endless poems I can never write.  What is it, this the needle points?  A complex tool, what that god screws us under pile drivers.  A mud, such that sticks our skin with cling.  A knot or a tangle, is it purposeful attrition or is it simple and devoid?

A poem is a hunger in a breath.  It is the swallowing of shallows.  It is the shallowing of swallows.  Enactment of the divine possibility.  Here let’s swing it: “Life is yes or no.”  What can we do but sing our brothers and lovers?  Each our wreck and, written, rectified.