He Couldn’t Help

He couldn’t help but look,
She was so elegant —
He couldn’t help but try
To talk to her

He couldn’t help but fall in love,
It seemed so right;
The next few weeks and months
Were all a blur —

But she was more than just a look,
She’d known of hurt:
The monsters that she feared,
She’d seen herself —

And so she reached out to him,
Just to find that when
It wasn’t about him,
He couldn’t

Help

up close, the wave’s a universe:
with every motion known to mind
within its transitory span,
and this one, simple moment

come see how life renews itself:
proceeding and receding, all
in times determined from without
that do not change the beauty of
the wave, nor mar its purity,

for we are universes, too,
existing now, in motion,
coming in and going out,
each perfectly unique, and yet
a part of a larger perfect whole

exigent willows

(this sameness wasn’t old) it was
the shape of our ambivalence
the form of our inheritance
the fate of our strange arguments
about the many and the few
the missing underprivileged
the moral corners cut and edged
the truths forgotten lightly pledged
but here the tumulus lies cold
the anger that has lost its sense
the dark too close and too immense
all willows in their exigence

between the moments

between the moments that we are
come many where we cease to be;
this isn’t paradoxical —
just pauses, bits of entropy

between the moments still and far
we stumble breathless into night;
for we must live in balance on
that space between the darkness and

the light

apposite reflections

maybe, there’s a different way
to be complete and not to be
afraid of what the world might think,

not subject to complicity
in many of the things gone wrong
that mar this day, this place, our view —

yes, maybe, there’s a different way
to really help the actual

you