How Many Times?

a birthday poem for Donna, June 8, 2012

She uncovers undiscovered species every day.

She usually comes upon them when they’re sleeping –
such is her supernally strange gentleness they seldom wake –
except, sometimes, to take the measure of her face

the way a puppy does when it looks up a moment from a nap,
in a lap, and learns that absolutely nothing is a problem.
The sweet emolument of her investigation is sufficient
to assure unprecedented forms of life that they are safe:

and more, that they’ll enjoy her rapt unsentimental interest
in their fate – oh, not devoid of feeling – never that: so full
of caring for their frail existence that they know they’re
being seen because they matter. Let disguises scatter.

She is you. And I am always yet another sleeping species.
How many times have you delectably detected me?







.

Entre Nous

Not all best friends
are like me and you –
as pure as dew.

Some amount
to a cabal
of two.






.

A Home-Grown Ozymandias

Given the infinity of quantum
probability, it’s not unreasonable
to suppose that through erosion
of some substance on some planet
yet to be, you will be flatteringly
modeled into statuary.

Equivalents of desert wind could
carve your face into equivalents
of sandstone, as a home-grown
Ozymandias: all enigmatically
reformed – standing up to scrutiny –
maybe by a swarm

of poets pondering divinity. Unless
they’re not in the vicinity. But wait
another trillion years: something
will bring up the rear, and there
you’ll be, at last, before a throng.
We could be wrong.








.

To Be Advised

To be

advised

exactly
when

you
thought

that you
were done

that you
had not,

in fact,
begun

isn’t
fun.






.

All You Did Was

All you did was, you went to bed.

Was that the catastrophe?

It’s bad enough that you lost a head.

But how did you lose all three?

.

The Keepers of the Genesis of Form

The Keepers

of the Genesis of Form
devote Eternity
to making sure it’s warm.

Without their
soft solicitude,
each blasted cold
vicissitude

of chaos
would erase
all vestiges
of grace.








.

Suitable Prize

Oh, to nap

upon the lap
of someone
you find wise
and beautiful!

That prize
might be
suitable.









.