Maybe, then, we may drown in cognitive rest…
Once the doctors outdid their oils, outdid their lotions, outdid their charms
wizards and monks locked with their books of hours
as through a pale blue boy’s lough.
Upon stars and faeries that might not answer him,
all the outer globes and globuals faded and
withered yellow, red, and brown as leaves
one must not term the unknown, God, or nothing.
How long could all the mechanics and spirits
in the Earth keep the sun blossoming to yellow and to red
and sunsets seen in Death’s discontent? He waits
for his howl of wolf, the scat of bed bugs across a towel,
love loose of fishnets sprawled as the scrolls of men alone
who never met their mothers again
who never saw their wives again
singing “Bacchus is oxygen!” My blood never stomached it,
taken to evacuate upon a fancy lawn after fancy lawn.
Nor ignore the clang and percussion from dark twigs
fighting to write history. I must embark to sail
these lines to you, confess my love for you, without
storming Troy–Swinburne saddled in horsery better than I.
There is no mountain face to climb that no one climbed,
nor one flower one suitor forgot to give.
Maybe, then, we may drown in the tears behind our tired lids.
Maybe, then, we may drown in cognitive rest.