What Is the Measure
I catalog what I cannot capture: the sun, its ragged stumble into rockface,
I list what I can't catch:
the sun, its battered coincidentally find rockface,
the exact height of this level or the following,
the ocean, obviously, against which everything is estimated.
My devices are inadequate, vague.
For example: it is basically impossible to gauge
the top against the separation from the tip
of one ring finger to the next, regardless
my arms' situation: outstretched, limp, akimbo.
For example: it is basically impossible to gauge
the earth pushed out of earth
against the gravity of my body, its bones,
its sacs, its meat and vivifying light.
I submit:
I don't comprise the mountain.
This, regardless of the bed of old blankets
furthermore, recently fallen maple leaves I've made
at its endless base.
I submit:
I don't comprise the field,
in spite of the fact that I have harrowed its length, its width
with my limited feet, my sluggish step.
Quit worrying about I hear what hastens
or then again dissipates, what tunnels or limits.
Quit worrying about I lift my hand to drift
the twisted grass, the echinacea's bare crown —
all of which wilts or squirms,
which is all new or almost the equivalent
prior to my foot's following fall.
I submit:
Likewise with the mountain,
the field.
Likewise with the field,
you,
ineluctable as a season, sun ragging the rockface.
Your arm, almost insofar as mine, your palm,
more extensive, your mouth a start, your eyes, obviously,
against which all the other things is estimated.
You harrow and the highest point squirms;
your expansive foot falls, and the field, akimbo, surrenders
its gravity, sets free its bodies its bones,
drones an energizing light.
Comments (1)
We really love this, Bishnu. Loved the interesting content and the pace and form and phrases, and we cited it as a great example of contemporary poetry on Vocal in our article "Is it possible to enjoy poetry." Hope you don't mind.💙Anneliese