by Sam Rasnake
There is no shaking like the rain, no tottering
like water over walls of rock when the eye moves
past the edge as if somehow a part of the scene —
no sea, no vast, no roar, no human misery,
and no silence like 2 AM when your ears drone
zzzzhhh — an electric river you carry everywhere —
and nothing more let go than the song you can't quite
make yourself sing, oh love, so you hum, nodding
as you walk by an opened window —
the world inside shrinking, the world outside shrinking,
and the night too proud, too wasted to remember —
like star-shimmers against the cold will of the sky —
not exactly a piece of work anyone would commit to,
or even spend time with, but here, lovers love
as killers kill for the space of here to there.
All rights reserved.
We see the world as we see the world, and no one can see it for us.
I'm never far, it seems, from these lines by Matthew Arnold: "Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, / Where ignorant armies clash by night."
My poem found its own way from his lines. Seems appropriate to now.
Originally published in from east to west: bicoastal verse, the poem was the closing piece for Inside a Broken Clock.