Torrents of passion for things that aren’t,
coupled closely, in this land of me,
with realities for the things that are:
troubled things, battered and worn
these things, these things unseen.
Slowly begins the march toward something else,
unrelenting, in this land of me,
like water paired to gravity’s steer
and I’d say I’m swimming against
but I am the water.
Indecision’s incision is the awkward measure,
my gravity has no ground in this land of me,
so the metaphor is less than tight:
unsure in want, less than sure in needs
so please return to the typical pleas.
For delicacy’s sake, allow a final question:
Is it the same in this land of you?
We are a current with sediment, wrecking houses
with little sentiment, passing by
and draining somewhere else.
(Dec, 2009)
