thirty-two

Three-two years into the fourth decade,
depending how You count. Another
ellipse, orbit, no meteor
—yet. Still we burn. 

Is it time that speeds up,
Or just Your comprehension,
My pretension,
Our contention?  

I thought it would be easy,
this thing I’m trying to do. You
told me it wouldn’t,
so why am I not listening? 

You said to follow, yet here I am
Not.
Wandering wilderness mortal
Lost but found, fond about lost.

Half my life with(out) them,
Less than half of that with(out) God
Always with You,
Always without You.

Kept together through marvels, separated
by the electric currents of the universe’s
dark boxed secrets, telling everyone, everything.
Careful of the hair: it’s full.

Melancholic, sad, lonely some call this writing,
retrospective, reflective, redundant, reductive,
the poet returns.
Does anyone use the word bucolic anymore?

It wouldn’t work, but it’s still a nice
word, opportunity, chance, take it,
I’m still here. And so I stay,
Journeying on.