The Book of Weston

Sensations: rumbling on my horizon,

some great wave eclipsing the sun,

rushing through without erosion,

every ocean flowing out.

Body: steel pipe, hollow, unbending,

taking every temperature, expanding

and contracting as it must.

Thoughts: many pieces suspended,

floating in surrounding air

like so many motes of dust.

And they all

collapse

inward

with a jolt,

and they fit.

Contours snap together,

correlating with every edge

of this room, this year, this era.

And I give them a container made of yes.

Yes yes yes to it all.

And through acceptance, a purging.

Safe inside this flawless moment.

Here in this warm center,

all those tense, prickly hours

anticipating incoming storms

are fragile little glass things

dangling over the edge of forgetting.

What moves through must move through.

And when it subsides,

the vehicle sighs and contracts,

a restful warrior. Then the pipe

becomes a poet, pliant

flesh and blood scribbling,

ready for the next flood.