Pour all the seas in a hole
and boats got nothing
to sail you on.
Sift the sands into a bag
and camels can’t hoof you
to a dandy oasis.
Blow winds in a balloon
and what’ll send it into
wobbly flight—tell me that?
Burn fire with sly oily wrath
making everything ash and
then try to read after dark.
Force faith to leap toward
a hazy convergence of lines
destined to meet real far
from where you wait.
Titrate love into one heart.
Tell no one and forget it
yourself.
Finally:
Gather all hate icy and not
in your grubby little soul and do
quickly something with it.
Drown it.
Bury it.
Fling it.
Burn it.
Love it.
Now where was that
sole bulging heart.
What’s left?
Nothing but to run until you’re as
far from this poem as hope takes
you which seeing as the poet didn’t
plan this one out completely is
not so long away in a land of
plenty that still perhaps exists.
