Our Song of Moonshine

 

Grains of salt evaporate 

on the premises,

an abysmal background noise,

a sardonic music of sorts.

 

The proving ground of the true weeping,

seen from a safe distance, 

must be melancholic,

says Book Four

on the real of being-multiple,

for suffering the finery of your

sweet poetic honey?

The platonic procedure will take us

to Paradise Lost.

 

*

Eyes wide open, you sighed, 

sunken, caught up

in sibilant fricatives, 

searching in alternate strain,

reminiscent of the sea, 

a bygone bareness, 

no less was I,

our song of moonshine not half sung, 

yet sounding, 

the return of thought, of home,

a comprehensive island paradigm, 

can it be more than that 

and be it true?

If where we swam 

was where, wave after wave, 

we nearly drowned.

 

*

Knowing no expenditure, 

no depletion,

we regenerate,

all there is to life everlasting,

mainly displacement of materials

along the banks of speech,

forever breaking water when rowing, 

staccato, a convoluted passion,

 

hard to love or not to love

as the weeds go in and out,

goes in and out, 

oxygen, 

then nitrogen.