Time advances far too slowly in anticipation. Minutes seem as hours, and hours seem as days, and by this count we shall be much in years before ten months are done and past.
Remedy
This absence wounds, and I, a wounded beast,
am barely left alive. A lonely cry
petitions for the sun to crest the east
and crown the crescent earth, to break and fly,
for stars no longer hold a lonely sway,
and early hours urge the glutted moon
to deviate in deference of day.
This eager heart is covetous of noon
and all the airy physic of the light,
remedial, mercurial, and fair,
till suffering, inspired by the night,
is settled in a beautiful repair.
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3 comments:
I find this piece the best balm for my long-suffering-Odysseus of a soul. I am also sighing and waiting and wanting. Or do I mean long-waiting-Penelope of a soul? Either way...let the ten months come and go.
"a beautiful repair" - love that. i've been away too long - this reminds me how much i enjoy your work. i don't know anone who can write poetry this formal, this well, and this pensive.
As always, Jaoquin, you're too kind. Thank you. Not to embark on a mutual admiration society, or any such thing, but every time I read your poetry, I wish I had your ability to capture those little windows of gritty reality in poems that express the musical cadence of an 18-wheeler rolling down the highway and a row of shot glasses lined up on the bar, waiting to be emptied. I hope you take that as a compliment...
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