Ramifications

When you can't wait for things to be over

you yearn for renewal. Yesterday

she thought she was a goldfish.

No bird sings: we can't hear them

as we see them; deafening torrents roar.

The river seems to be flowing backward.

With the help of doubt, effort and blood

(warm blood that mocks dignity)

disappointment is more comforting than relief.

Harsh winds and sunlight torment bare trees,

in the evening we gaze at shivering stars

aware that only warm weather can save us.

As a child I loved straws and distortion.

Today, the government

would classify me as politically unreliable:

the difference between visiting a zoo

and climbing in with the lions.

It rains and rains: eyes; widgets; flowers.

Good bait catches fish.

Conflicts arise and I'm reduced to pulp:

there's no one to whom I can speak of my longing.

Many years of hard work lie behind us

as do the blue hills visible on clear days

and the rose quartz that becomes

animated under racing light.

Weightless wings flutter while low-rolling clouds

chase a gun-metal moon. The coliseum shakes;

the colossus is transformed into a leviathan

and I reject the supplications,

though one can't be sure of anything.

Rivers resign; clouds are pregnant

and the perfect opportunity has already transpired,

so a bagful of tricks is necessary.

There's beautiful and then there's beautiful:

anonymous ugliness in the form of respectability,

something we could put to good use if we wanted to.

Silver trumpets are history lamps without a past.

The iron-chair flies lightning-swift.

As the sky looks down on the rank, imperial empire

a jukebox plays low and the mind's ear

scouts moors and marshes.

Behold the velvety water; the saturated moment;

a bullfrog sitting on a stone; cloudberries.

How can someone be so hysterically calm?

Masters of fiction burst forth: their egos mount the sun

while nations poison locusts, dam floods.

Prosecutors will be violated to the full extent of the law.

And even when warm weather comes,

continuing isn't easy, in fact it's often hard.

MARC COHEN is the author of two books of poetry, On Maplewood Time and Mecox Road, from The Groundwater Press. He has recently completed Purple Man, his first novel. He splits his time between New York City and Sag Harbor, New York.

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