… All outside of flesh is only our ambience to consciousness,
mere flotsam and jetsam in the river of space/time:
here a father, there a lover, here a stranger, there a friend
as the river of extent/of continuity, of eddies and cataracts
from its Big Bang beginning to its Apocalyptic end,
mountains, continents, oceans, and stars all in collision,
omitting, temporarily abiding together then gliding away
into disorder and dissolution for nothing, nothing will stay.
We are lights to ourselves alone, watts in our own dark,
and we guide ourselves deathward, our thoughts photons
shot light our understanding of every lepton and quark
accompanying us on our pour along in currents of chaos,
this light the magic of imagination, the fire of dreams,
our sentience itself an unquenchable metaphysical spark.
FREEDOM
My room is decluttered, and I can advance
Freed from death, now twisting its slow course
In time. Talk to me before time grips us. Death
Will be long and no one will come to free us. So
Evade the years with seething. Drift into Spring,
Or stay as stones at the breach of the valley.
OUR NOVEMBER
What a roaring season! Best to stay low
Along the ground, dig in, pile heaviness
Between us and its swells on our rubbing
Bones, listening to each crest of sound,
That something running this show, through
Stubble-tortured fields cut by another season.
Hold tight in the house, its shaking wood,
Its steel aperture. Go to the kitchen where
Oven warmth will take you in even in this
Darkness to wrap about you, climb through
Time as the black clot of this season beats
At all it can beat at with all its heavy cries.