Wednesday, April 13, 2011

On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011

In The Cloud-Like Impermanence Of My Mortal Poetics

stutter -
we can never say everything that need be said

shutter -
we can never capture everything that need be seen

as the subtraction adds up to less than we expect

and so I stammer to capture the word, the wind
with less than perfect diction

and so I clamber to catalog the wild, the world
with less than complete collocation

as I shudder in the length of my receding shadow,
in the cloud-like impermanence of my mortal poetics,
realizing within the word, the wind, the wild, the world
that it is easier to conceive of the infinite, than the finite

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