It is impossible
to live up to the lyrical,
its angelmarked
bendings of antenna,
and sonic proofs,
to nestle
in the hollows
of pitch,
half-bird, half-wraith,
attempting the almighty bait
and switch,
to con the heavens
into granting you
a seraph’s amnesty,
to sing down the stars
with a parched, mortal throat,
ambitiously widening
to swallow the sea,
or at least gag
happy
on the sea’s coral-racked
dreams
and wrecks
(how beautiful
a death
if one could taste
Atlantis
before fading
to black)
Lyricism’s
double standards,
and inordinate demands
on day to day
living,
might be best
left
to pages,
talismanic rants,
and undersea dreamverses,
where direct commands
from queenly blue stars
leave enough time
and space
to do
the goddamned
dishes.
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