Everything seems heterodox, except Yeats scholars,
The earthquake along a long coast,
The name of the location pressed between
Pages of Moby Dick
Pressed to keep for future and insertion
Into a billet doux redolent
Of misty kisses of misty faces in Klimt paintings,
Real flesh fierce to become vaporous
In a mosaic milieu of cognac
And shaky arms upsetting silver bracelets to shine.
Public information, TV, newspapers, encyclopedias,
Serious conversations about current events, an NFL draft pick,
And historical happenings during the days
Scherazade was telling her tales are precluded
From emotive personal comprehension as being realities,
And thus are relegated
To bins of osscurantism in attics, cellars, and backrooms
Giving spider webs a foundation.
Much speech, many saying with ardor and authority
What they do not mean or understand,
But all appears as appropriate
as neural impulses and debris
Convert, recycle into current assertions
No use in further complicating the confusion
By having faith in questions
And not being agnostic about answers.
When washed up by waves
Thrill with beings
And their white legs
Are petite miracles.