The pushing, potent, heaving…

Poesy

This is, nearly, what it’s like.

Magma flowing cool, I think,

is nearly right,

the swelling flow,

quite nearly right.

The pushing, potent,

familiar overflowing burden,

is quite nearly truly right.

The heaving rush in one clean moment,

of one clean, bursting, raptured ideal,

it speaks the straining gush of simple words

that stream around and through,

cool fire sparking

as they merge and touch

and match and lodge together.

This is nearly, quite truly,

nearly certain,

quite nearly right.

April 3, 1996

Sanibel Island, Florida

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Your comments are welcome—tell me what you’re thinking.

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