Swish
I like this poem of mine:
Swish
I know now, know now, the final swish
that moves my life so slowly—oh so slowly—
on its way. Is a swish, a swish of the secret
silver contract made with the moon
by a people I wasn't even born yet.
But the contract is mine
as much in turn it was theirs.
And I will do my duty—even if it means
following mapless a sky I do not know,
whose stars are strange to me.
But follow I will as I have to
in the trip of life that is hardly a trip,
hardly a going anywhere or a getting
to any particular place on time—
even if there were maps at every station.
So I trace after the swish
the sweep of the moon; its endless charting
cycleless, lineless, only a turning
from something to something.
