“It Takes a While”
It takes a while, time enough,
Perhaps an added mile, but for now the matter of a sunrise,
Dawn to sunset, twilight dusk beyond the present thoughtful sky.
The season moans discovering its last and latest secrets, indelicate and rough
Suggesting mitigating circumstance but flawless calculation.
“Rest,” he tells himself; he suspects he must, but, “Wait.
The matter of an hour or two is nothing new.”
But in the meantime, what do simple organs do
Who know the cycles of their own estate,
The proper cadence and the rhyme
That replicate the many-storied ancient answers so impotent
And noxious in the impasse, so strident, so redolent
Of passions’ pasts? Traced in outline
With no purpose nor need for measurement or rectitude of vision
In but weak and ritual circumcision keen to reconnoitre produce
from the residue, smoking shards of constant change and indecision.