Unsent letter #4

Not even that lonely blue planet
separated from the pull of its yellow sun
sweeping its arc across some golden nebula in the vast emptiness of space
in the huge infinity of coldness and darkness
drifting alone,
yes,
I am sure I miss you more
than that iced-over planet misses
its own bright star.

After a big collision in the 4th quarter of the Baltimore V. Pittsburgh game

Three slow-motion replays confirmed
from three different angles
the force of the impact,
two helmets snapped back
and two bodies fell like rag dolls.
My dad calls it “getting your bell rung”

After a few minutes, we could tell it was serious
as both teams got off their benches
and approached the pair (still motionless on the ground),
some players wearing their black winter parkas
looking like a crowd of reapers come to take the dead,
And that orange golf cart that rolls onto the field
must be some ironic chariot from heaven.

This suddenly visible burden
(the fear of life)
hangs dark over the now silent crowd.
It breaks your heart a little
to see those giant linebackers
take a knee and say a prayer
to a not-often addressed God,
hanging their heads
and wiping away tears with thick ropey forearms
saying please, please, let my friend be alright,
let him stand up,
please lord.

What we are

Life is a river,
and we are a raft on this river.
We are also the boy on this raft
(and his friend in blue overalls
barefoot
straw hat pulled down over his eyes
feet dangling off the edge
we are this boy as well)

In fact, we are also the big stick
in this boy’s hands
finding purchase in the muddy bottom on some rock
with which to push the raft downstream
and perhaps that rock is someone we love
and perhaps the floating detritus
that wraps around the stick
is a mortal enemy, maybe even an eternal antagonist
who pursues us across various lives as we live them
persistently annoying the momentum of this stick, and this raft,
(which are both us, remember,)
and the boy, who simply lifts the stick from the floor of the river
and gives it one, two, three hard shakes,
he is still us as well.

And this rolling black water beneath us?
It is the world and it is time
and it is born high up in the mountains
as white snow, pure blinding white snow
and it trickles down through trees and dirt
it collects in small streams
and passes underneath bridges
eventually joining together here
dark and huge and unslowing
then empties out into the warm sea
(and that sailboat, passing by the mouth of the river
i would like to think we become that graceful white vessel
with its sails unfurled, yes,
just like an angel’s wings)

That high lonesome sound

Please write another song
in the dusty desert
of new mexico
where the morning comes with such effort
in deep purple sorrow
And among the dark cacti–
just a silhouette of you
holding a guitar
with your head down
singing your lonesome song
as the sun rises,
bringing clarity

You != Me

I guess that’s why
you see the English majors
reclining on benches,
while the engineers are easily spotted
by the way they race across campus,
head down against the sun,
using the momentum of their books
to catapult upstairs,
legs swinging like the unlatched arm of a trebuchet.