I’ve rarely written poetry. Songs yes, poems not so much. I can’t remember what was going on in the first few months of 2001, or why I felt it necessary to commit these three short verses to a word processor and save them. They read like break-up poems, though who was breaking up with whom I really can’t recall.
my sense of dread is small
it’s not impending like a train
rather, it trails behind me
like a length of wet, grey wool
where now and then it snags in things,
and tugs harder at my cuff.
nothing distresses me more
than when a person takes a question mark
and without consent they straighten it
so from love? making love!
another bend now
it is broadly encouraged is it not?
for lovers to make a gift of the moon
for my part I’ve managed the craters
the airlessness and the cold
when what I wanted to give was the brilliancy
and orbits I planned to devote.
but if we cherish the moon on account of its surface
on account of its beauty on account of its knocks
I’m left wondering now about craters
about what else might be given when two worlds collide.