Purgatorio

The expert’s eye movements do 

the polar bear on ice, 

mind floating over the screen, 

targets flashing

too much history of the eye.

Thus, it rains again, you dirty old cloud. 

Biographical drops drip 

from a low and shifty sky,

lonely enzymes singing my blues.

*

The choice it is, 

or often appears to be,

 

between moving laboriously

or staying easily,

a logic of space and effort 

down the miles of rock.

Your spear of imagination,

your winged serpent,

 

cannot speak but says more than plenty

 

in the way of certain hormones 

and other bits 

that got expensive names 

in even certainer sciences,

 

the enjoyable kind,

 

one magnanimously agreeing to take 

what the other gleefully consents putting there,

 

an elastic sense of self and oh… 

*

The whole weekend got up at length

and Monday followed suit, 

smoking a good one too. 

Wholly! 

We there 

for the one reason of being.

Icicles wandered in the wee little 

time units of sad nights.

You wished. 

Your pupils on the cringe,

the light several truths too clear.