Tuesday, February 15, 2011


Her own spinning top -
there's a beauty to those storms in the sky,
the current shooting like trees,
the thunder of complaint
interrogates my turbid surface,
shaping me to some valence,
a responsive froth
that won't stay put,
that only honors
tidal promptings.

But there's another lady
inside the lake
who moves within the waves,
her eyes as large
as her heart is wide,
she whispers "always
I feel everything as you do."