When You Reflect on Anything

Slow serpents, eels and undulating whales prevail:
the treasures of a hungry movement through a moment
which in surfacing, descending, and resurfacing

put an infinity of lies to “journey”: everything is neither
here nor there, and there and here: dimensionally
everywhere, accounted for by various strange measures

whose m.o. we seem to be remanded to this incarnation
not to know: sentenced by authorities we sometimes get
a glimpse and hint of in late January early evening glow:

the prospect of more blurry flurries that will come and go,
and come again to sail and burrow into and beyond our
land-locked views – bemusing and inviting: “come on in,

the water’s fine!” – no matter if it’s solid miles-thick ice

or flows like rich dark wine, the kind through which a whale
voluptuously undulates her lovely lumbering behind.

The Universe is made of orgasms, my dear, front

and rear, and you’re a drop in its eternally ejaculating sea.

Remember that when you reflect on anything, including me.

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