We always write our verses on the green.
Extolling nature, one dull paean, then
Another, the savannah evo psych
So loves a bellwether to our brains.
We hammer home our thoughts of death, with odes
And eulogies, our writing full of black,
Of wistfulness, of melancholy. Sad,
As if mere “sad” was “deep” and “deep” was “good.”
We speak of love, the thrust, surrender, catch
Of breath, exchange of fluids, the coy glance
And longing. Each of us forgets that all
Of us know all of this. Forever. Now.
So much of writing tells us what we know.
So much of culture trades old comforts, myths
We tell ourselves to keep the strange away.
Just three great subjects, and our story’s done.
This makes it hard to write each Sunday poem.
