Jul/Aug 2017 Poetry |
Everything Breaks Down
Sooner or later the sun
bursts like a pomegranate seed,or failing that, a faucet
begins to blubber,one by one the lights
on the ceiling fail,the kinks in the hose
tighten to the pointyou're wrestling with
a boa constrictortrying to straighten
it out, throwing outyour back, tearing
a bicep's tendon.Or the cup you're holding
slips from your hand,perhaps from a nerve
in your hand that flinchesOr your heart
suddenly crampsand your cardiologist
shrugs, "Everythingbreaks down, wears
out."What can you do?
Too late, you end upviewing the past
the way a retired sailorin Kansas does—hearing
the Pacific's roarin the tossing limbs
of his bent apple
trees.
Small
As a boy I was unnerved
by the great distances between the stars.At 8, at Point Reyes where the Pacific
swims towards the islands of JapanI lay down in the sand like an oyster
closing my eyes to keepfrom being overwhelmed.
Even today, as an adult, I fearbeing diminished in your eyes.
How relieved I amwhen I spot you emerging
from a crowd, quickening your pace,your love growing larger
with your approach.