Somewhere there lies, loitering
in the distance between pen and page,
the anxiety between knife and cut,
the pause between note and
note – the death between enemies, lives
the untested, a life yet
to be conjugated
into constituents, a partial
whole of whole parts.
Maybe in all our persistence,
our stolen inevitabilities,
we trade the certain for the sure,
the palette for the lecture.
Does not heaven bear the pernicious blockade?
The bee’s tongue waits to pollenate
what soon will sweeten the starving
earth, and every smiling charlatan
a saint in the making.
Winnowing out from among the what ifs,
here-to-fors of judgements made before
the trial, the touch before the love,
is a shimmering reverie,
song of those who cannot sing.
It is the best song.
The churning stomach taut with
It is the best joke.
The blanching eye, met full on
with the heavier beauty.
It is the wildest good.
Somewhere there lies, loitering –
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