(This poem begins in a state park that has a tower in it.)
I take communion with the tree whose leaves caress my nap.
We are halfway around a great lake in a singular repose,
worries resting on a comfy stone.
It is a big thrill the war I fight with Hemmingway.
It happens mostly inside the typewriter.
The iron is hot.
Whitman is on a fast break in the prose.
The gift of fluency and verse consumes itself
as I tear away the wrapping paper. It's blue skies ahead
for this young man smitten with a girl and the opportunity
for a university education.
A little gravel is pelted at the window of enlightenment
in order to rescue the beautiful boy hidden away there
on the top floor.
I lug heavy ladders to scale the wall but discover only weakness
once I get the ladders in place.
The ladders are the intellectual climate I strive to keep up.
The boy is the famed captive of a language only understood by seers.
The knight and his squire carry the new, courtly love to couples
testing each other's learned edge.
My speech hesitates on the catch of a wave way out there
in the universe.
I seek plausibility in words, whitecaps only. Explain dark matter.
Then tell me who you are. The universe is a dark building
or several dark buildings.
Twilight marks are blending with evening rush soon.
It is good to start a journey with a strong delusion.