Consolation

And it’s best to begin

with that most obvious and undeniable

truth — like the protuberant nose

on which the lens-scratched glasses perch

that breaches the plane of every open door

an eighth step ahead of the sternum —

of the bitter logic that no poem

can transcend the finite and touch the devine,

so every poem is a tragic record of failure.

We’re already through the door.

Take off your glasses.

Feel the faint stirring of atmosphere

from the open window of desire.

Think about one particular kiss

which to describe it now would still make you blush.

Or that space between the flower

and the hovering bee. The motion of wings.

The way they, too, stir the air. Words

like beeswings.

 

 

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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