Long-Haul Poems

My Grief and Yours Walk into a Bar

And they burn as candles, eat the room’s oxygen—draw closer

Ignorant of being inside the joke and unable to cross the

Separating them.      Bottom to top, things are built to entangle.
The flame’s crux, I learn from my daughter awfully late, is black and
  empty, as today

The doctor pronounces my plateau.     Daughter of Elysium, fire-inspired we tread
Within thy sanctuary.
Still, our griefs further

Argue they’re misunderstood even while they swallow us
Whole.     What is understanding but whatever the mind no longer

Slathers with longing?     So my grief tells yours

At the bar.     The bartender dries a glass and whispers, Pal I have no idea
Where this will lead us, but I have a definite feeling it will be

A place both wonderful and strange.     Surely we fit
The routine: in walks some salt-of-the-earth types, blind to their comic

Halos, and from a distance the spectators squint.     Wait for
  the punchline.     

Our griefs perceive what we dismiss: the slight give of stage      boards.

The delight from looking out, stunned, into the lights, unlike
  an actor or a deer.

The wages from not cooling hard in space, as matter ought

But spending—you and me—all our wax and
  time and air.

Self-Portrait on Daughter’s Giant
Unicorn Floaty Out to Wine-Dark Sea,
Rainbow Fading

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