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Poetry, Summer 2007

Page 3

Deluge by Donald Kuspit


deluge v



am i real,

                  or is it only birds

who suffer unreality,


in the empty infinite?


the sky unburdens

                                     its innocence

in icicles,

                  dripping into slow mirages

of wisdom,

                      clear as ancient crystal


                  the cracks of time.


i am no more real 

                                 than the embrace

that makes us real,

                                    the purely real

a wasteland of losses,


possibilities abandoned


the narrow path

                               of our intimacy,

rising above the treeline.

                                               all is finally clear,

and the birds soar


forgetting that we

                                  are their prey.


deluge vi



eloquence at last,

                                   in the mist

that hung

                   in the unspoiled silence,

glistening like crystal

                                         in the hesitant sun,

my wakefulness lurching

                                                towards the limits

of the eye,

                    urgency in every gentle touch

of light,

               our intimacy spread

like a sheltering shadow,

                                                adding majesty

to the birdless sky.

                                      the dawn never lost its freshness

even as darkness labored

                                                   in the mind,

seeding the emptiness

                                            with idle thoughts,

as though they were myrmidons

                                                              of meaning

rather than the waste matter

                                                     of the senses.

death hurried briskly

                                       through time,

making every moment

                                           the last,

and most lasting,

                                 for each outlasts

my longing for you,

                                      throwing idle darts

at your flesh.

                          one will stick

in memory

                     so that we can forget ourselves.



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Per Contra Summer 2007