Bipolarity

The atmosphere feels hexed –
as if perspective which conduced
to comfortable reason knew

some absolutely other season
than the one upon you now. How
oddly lovely all this grand and dry

and blue and clean September
weather seems to be! You intuit
it’s a music which rides on unheard

cacophony: a rickets-ridden rhythm
far below: up here, its beauties swell;
down where it counts it’s hell.

He’s Icarus and soon his wings
will melt and he will fall into the sea.
And not one bit romantically.



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