Poetry Thursday

I've been thinking, again, of you
and others. How something we don't
understand binds this universe
together. That the dark

matter of our brains may be what
makes us who we are. How instinct,
genetics, and experience weave
together in a rope

we may use to climb or tie or hang
ourselves. Or others. How my brother,
finally, released my hand, and died.
This snow will, soon,

release itself into air. I am thinking,
again, of hearts: their dumb stamina,
their unseen flaws and missed beats.
That we can test only

that which we can see. Or that which
leaves a mark, some evidence of its
existence, if only for a nanosecond,
if only on a graph.

Are we constructs? Is there a formula
which expresses you, which expresses
me? How our blunt hands hold on.
How they let go.

 

This one's for Mary. It was written the night before she left a comment, which is one of those synchronicities that are baffling, and wondrous.

Comments

[Brian]

This one freaks me out a bit, ok, a lot.

That falling and dying part. What are we? I don't know. But there is something there, some attraction that also repels.

[Marcy Sheiner]

I love the Thursday Poem above. I read several more of your poems, and they're really good. Moving. They touched me, particularly "Coming to Grief." If you have a "dead tree" collection I'd love to get it.