MILLENNIAL CURVE: A TORQUED ELLIPSE OR THREE
Not dead weight but live load: the hernia
of history ruptures any calm we carry
to the edge of the horizon. Dead calm.
Lacking owls’ easy spin, our necks wrench
in backward glance—springs shot from age, cricks
grinding, pocking the periphery. Dead springs.
Is it dawn, noon or crepuscule? Every
flashlight speculates when the power fails
us, and in our urge to round off numbers
we make this deadline slow and sticky: one
one-thousand, two one-thousand, ready or
not, here we’re from. Such the dutiful spouse
to excitable earth, sued for abuse,
trying to save it like always with sex
or the opposite of sex, a balling
Malthus of action and restraint. Take steps back.
Carry a seascape in your head to sooth
a teething baby. Let lions sleep a hundred
days without a single spoiling fly. Swallow
diamond pills to vanquish limp from your gaze,
turn the page on tragic with an umbrella
liability policy and a fine-arts
floater. Here’s where things get necessary
heavy: torqued Cor-Ten steel collapses
notions of what’s hard, soft and true . . . how
rust embroiders our assembly line of days
by stitching hurt to love . . . raw beauty plainly
cooked by cycling sun and rain, salt and cloud.
In morning’s middle distance, the tumor
of front-page news begins to shrink and sky
comes clean, all silky and albescent . . .