poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain

The Waves

they come at us not quite together
like lines in a poem we’ve never read
or have forgotten like most of what happens to us
they’re doing their best to look invincible
like lines of attacking infantry
before there were automatic weapons
trying to look uniform and endless
forming up out of nothing out beyond themselves
clones each of each but by a closer look
they’re ragged their losses dropping away
underwhelming splintering as forgettable individuals
they close up redressing our mental lines

she thinks; I always thought the pasts were pushing us
away from themselves into some unknowable future
but here are futures pushing us
back into some pasts we missed most of

he thinks: all this push-away should be teaching us
something we would not otherwise see
it’s all about seeing more or differently
about wanting to see what would be seen
merging with us; a merging we always are
but have yet to experience
even as it keeps coming at us
from ahead and behind all but defying us
to ignore or forget it again, again, again

it is just now an inner earth-tremor
surge of longing mirroring waves
of push-pull into and away with

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