A metaphor is a compromise between poetry and nature.
Wind among the grasses creates a restless army.
But nature will always disagree:
“Restless army is language, not me.”
Seeing the lone bird above the harbor
from the train in the early evening of a long
tranquil August day, beauty to you has nothing to do
with the bird and the silent gliding of its turning wings;
the beauty you see has nothing to do with language
as it might have pertained to you and me,
had we talked. I didn’t
feel like it. The crunch of night.
I don’t know why.
I didn’t speak, and yet I love you.
It feels holy. This failure. This thing
unafraid to fail.
Oh but I hate it. I really do.
Damn life! Always in the present tense.
The sun’s almost up. I’m a restless army,
lacking all beauty and sense.