What could I have known of the easeful ways

of sliding through this world? A dew drop

descending the petal’s sloping splendour;

 

this same moon that rose over great beasts

and effervescing pools now rises

over your back’s prickling flesh and —

 

there is only so much water within us,

yet we are all pooling through our bodies,

pretending to be solid masses,

 

to be beings that matter, bodies

with obligations to other bodies.

 

For instance, death need not be

 

such a final, final thing. The days

heave along at a lazy pace.

 

If there were still leaves in this naked place

 

they would be still too, or at least listening

for the sighing tides of the Atlantic,

for the shuddering clouds’ fearsome report,

 

for the cyclic storms of trauma tracing

the exhausted courses of our ancestors,

for the chanting sky’s low hollow sound.

 

 

This poem is reprinted from Dr. George’s new poetry collection, Epiphaneia.


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