WATERMARK

Each morning I remind myself what day
this is, to place myself within the human
community. These calendars, these dates
are not real things, but merely human

impositions on the sun, the moon,
the stars, which all will follow their own paths
whether we name them or not. These weeks past
our blue earth’s path is changed by its own

deep spasm. We walk along its surface
pretending not to notice it can toss
us off at a whim. It reclaims us
millimeter by millimeter, loose

flesh and slow bones, smoky dusks and brilliant
noons — all sacrificial celebrants.

23 March: OK, I confess to horrid ignorance of British sexual slang (& Brit friend A. has a lot to answer for . . . )

I’ve not attempted a rhyming, metered piece in years. So, a sort-of sonnet. Expect revisions.