Everything is lying between the lines.
The needle’s point, magnified, is round.
The coastline seems smooth, but the beach defines
roughness; infinity is wrapped around
inside, and then, again circling itself.
What I have seen of you so close, profound
in intimacy, is not what yourself
is far away. What seems so straight is curved.
The changes are at th’edges of myself
where you are lying duned, naked, reserved,
dreaming coiling within dreamt dreams awake.
So the turmoil seems smooth, the peace preserved.
Beauty is simplicity—but heartache
hides chaos—this emotional outbreak.
In Hunan, a butterfly’s wings flap once;
an imperceptible breath exhales off;
it blows into a breeze, an occurrence
of wind, and then great hurricanes spin off
in Atlantic waters devastating land
oblivious to a shining insect
flying from flowers. First, the reprimand
as well began with wings’ smallest affect.
Now stormy churns destroy all we built
along our beach, washing it all away.
Cyclones exhaust themselves around the guilt
that’s left over from a butterfly’s day.
Nothing’s the way it’s planned or hoped to last;
Love’s flight gives flight to chaos unsurpassed.
Famine worsens as worse things get when things
are bad; seven lean years stretch out to more.
There is never an end in sight. Downswings
do spiral down; the bottom is unsure.
I hunger deeper than Saharan drought.
You’re the moisture I want from cloudless skies.
You are the desert’s absence—not this doubt
of wet greenery that this sand implies.
How does this chaos end? Where is the rain?
The desert grows in light and in darkness.
The cusp of soil recedes each drying day;
there’s less to grow on. It won’t sustain
anything more than windy emptiness:
Then wandering will stop and I will stay.
Now trial and error brings me nearer
to you than Euclid to a spiral cloud
light years away. Nothing is much clearer
than math; but love has reason disallowed.
No algorithm or formula describes
the formless singing shape of what we feel:
Careless collision makes melodic vibes
rotate within our own galactic wheel.
Numbers irrational—one, two—create
heaven’s music and motion in madness.
Yet, there must be an equation innate
within chaos to make some sense of us.
It must be: Each is one but both are two,
not two but one—oh well, I’ll try anew.