Worm Hole

I try to convince myself

this is the good time--

the music has stopped;
there is the rattle
of ice, the dangle of
                                 conversation.

There is you--

in that soft pink sweater
and dimpled smile,
eyes all a glitter,

but it's only sparks of light
dancing the surface,
everything below
is stone blue ice
that looms towards
my Titanic heart.

I'm jealous--of everything:
of your density,
that everyone here
knows you as well as I.
You, my wife,
the stunning white weight
of my life.

I'm jealous
of these painters,
these poets,
these writers
who flock around
your jeweled presence
to take refuge from the blue
abyss that is
our lives.

I hate how my words never
come together
with enough force
to implode
the lies.

Yet, I know
there is an unseen wonder--
a small but significant canyon
just beyond the endless suburban
sprawl and nylon skies
where a hawk
still does fly.

And there is a narrow wash--a slot
canyon carved through time.
A great myth is buried there
under the coral sands--the song
of a great flood, of a great
sacrifice, of a great love.

If the right poet
were to find it--the right
rhythms, the right breaths--
capture the terrible currents,
the great horror,
the tremendous sacrifice, especially
the Christ-like love displayed
in the aftermath--

well maybe, somehow
these empty evenings
of articulate conversation
would mean something.

Therefore, I
like the others
hang on & grasp
for the right line
to end the endless arctic
of our lives.

© Steve Brown 2016

Recently, for whatever reason, I've begun to dream alternative lives.  This poem came from a dream I had last night.  It evolved as I wrote it, so it isn't the dream, but it's not too far off.  The dreams are always centered around an imperfect world with lots of pain and heartache, but I always wake up feeling that everything is alright, it's just life.