drift

you can drift
up a little, and lift to my right
making distant lights twinkle, friend.
a wisp of steam from hospital vents unknown:
i know you.
you are my muse. my
inspiration, religion, aspiration.

tomorrow's years, they scroll
from us, blacktop shimmering
sunlight and heat.
next crest in sight, but
after--who knows? i know only
that i do not, wise Socrates
i do not know.

are you holy, dear
inspiration, religion, aspiration
welling up between shimmers? or
arbitrary, steam-wisp astride? transient,
you yet hold weight in me
for seeing This moment
belonging to me.
i cannot have it
after having it, but
for all time i know This was.

This is not what i tried to do, kind world.
i confess candidly, openly admit:
This is failure, This is mistake.
This is freedom of utter loss.
i and This and blacktop shimmering,
all wisp-drifting manmade cloud,
here a moment, gone the next, but
for all time we know we were.

how does This change us?
brief scars of evaporation illuminate
what turns my soul: not cold academiction
nor factualysis, scholasticia,
but warm Blood! poetry, kind vein-rhythms,
you, my wisp of steam--

until i read these dripping words
aloud. noise is dissipation. translucent
moisture-muse thins to invisible air.

across the street, someone awakes
to click on a light--i saw so
in the rusted yellow window blind,
which lit up for a moment--then
a new moment, and the yellow square
disappears: indistinguishable in
muddled building-shadow. 

you know i can't see the steam
anymore, over those buildings, in the red
dotted lights. but i know i saw it, i know
i felt the gentle Socratic thrill:
knowing i know i don't really know at all.
This has gone, and i will not return to it
but neither will i soon live apart from it.
hope, once found, carries us within,
against unfortunate tangibles--
you drift, you drift,
you drift within.

march '08

october '09