“I Cannot Tell You Otherwise”
I cannot tell you otherwise but what I know:
There is no love, no lasting show beyond the tickle
Of the feet, the off-hand movement toward the fickle
Minute hand, the whisper of aurora borealis in a fortnight’s cosmic show.
What subtleties in remission can there be with suns that fall
And rise so rapidly that days and weeks I no longer feel or see;
The reaches of the dawn and dusk provide what cannot fatten or appease
The instincts, terrors in the mortal coil that shriek beyond the call
Of mental awe and spiritual endurance? Their rising and their falling
Force a torpor, a revulsion, an inertia born of galling
Impediments, weights and incremental ravages of stalling
Seasons steeped in fecund light and deadly calling—
Rigid yet? pernicious, yes!—as hungers carved in something even stones
Cannot recall: a stroke of fate, a rolling of the dice, another casting of the bones.