poem 374 of a poem a day for 2012

between being late and my idolatry of desire

my fingers are out-stretched

reaching through Demeter’s hair

in the bough creaking groans

in the thinning sweeps of leaves

in the southerlies advance

over Winter

high in the skies

a hot iron brittle Autumn

keeps the ice above

traps the dead

and dying

this inverted

valley warm

this dry-tongue sear

this snake-bedded memory

seeks the run-off

to hide in pockets

of shade

deep in the shale

wanting to feed 

a thirst enough 

to cut rivers 

into the clay

underneath

the desiccates

of Summer

are falling like ruins

into the wind

into the purity

of the afterlife

into the river

I ferry cross 

for being without reason

for being the payment 

of passage

by identifying

my archetypal adhesions

my cellular shapes 

my gravities

I've soul-ed myself with

for trying

to understand

the mathematical designs

appearing out of the chaos

of endless choices

and spectrum traffic analysis

amid my electron desertions

in all that space

the Universe takes

when it knows

that possibility is

always on time

and is still all

that matters

in the dark

when I wish

for stars

beneath

the clouds

EJR ©