Monday, April 16, 2012

eerratic cumming poetry

for a virgin 3 Gorges

the river’s frigid, swollen mound of water intrigues me
bending lower i tickle its glassy surface with my swollen lips
something awakens, like springtime, and its steady roar
seems, momentarily, but not momentary, to be moved

deep within something simenon stirs and think maybe its earth
or maybe maggie and milly and molly and may, but it is earlier
than all that, still, further upstream where vernal showers birth
all that comes after 
even the peaceful sunlight falls gently

then like some wet wolf, it shakes itself, loosening the stones
which once moored it to eternity with imperceptible grace
lower still, i sense there is a placidity that bends like styrene
beneath the weight of knowing all that hangs beyond and above

somewhere in the middle, like a monument to present fleeting
it places in grey intervals some energy that cannot be bent how
possibly my own moaning and mysterious tears now sleeting
offer such friendship and adventure, such dreams in one place