Archive
09/29/09 - (2)
Every Time
It's been less than three days since I left, With immense pit-of-the-gut reluctance, My cabin overlooking Lake Nebagamon's northern banks,
Less than seventy-two hours since I flew home, From the airport near Miller Hill, above Duluth, To incongruously sprawling St. Louis,
And yet my psyche's clepsydra Seems at cosmic odds with all its numinous cogs, Which, over nine joyous days,
Came to rely on the lake's lapping waves, Their perpetual motions within motions, To tell my heart its arteries' hour.
How is it that it's taken less than three days To get me out of my sacred rhythms, Cause the Wisconsin waters in my spirit to evaporate,
Make me conflate the village's measureless serenity With this city's overscheduled, angst-stricken chaos? Time is how. It waits for me, every time.
09/29/09 - (2)
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