The Magick of We.


The narcissistic frenzy of the cock,
whirling in the dust of his own strut.
There’s never been a cock that didn’t crow and I
am no exception but at least I’ve known
a moment, when I seemed to disappear,
swimming in the pools of her dark eyes:
Slate-smoked and soft as new baked bread.

To be called so fierce to heart’s account.
To breathe ‘I love’ and ‘I am loved’;
cradled in the amber of a dream.
Those words of Raymond Carver sing like steel:
‘To be so loved upon the earth: That
is what we seek.’  And maybe why
sometimes, the flailing grasp exceeds the reach.

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