All streams flow into the sea, yet the sea is never full.
— Ecclesiastes 1:7
In the hour when cloud is not white, we take
a chance on hope, or on a thousand million
complications denying the rain. You juggle,
the skittles fly into the air and keep going,
nudging the clouds into whiteness. And a
rainbow forms—you hold out your hands
and let it juggle you into foreign skies, into
diaries God is penning while He opens shut
gates and takes away your leaf—for you are
clothed by the dawn sun, the ocean spray,
the wonder of the love of children. Dip your
toe into the sweet, eternal waters of divine
being, then fling yourself into God’s heart.
This you taught me. And that a sea is a sky.
After hallucinating on a bowl of Tibetan
Cornflakes, I remember the mushroom daze,
when telephones rang without being rung,
ladders dropped me into an exalted sky,
and the reward for whatever it was
was a pork roast, minus the dancing broccoli.
Upsidedown in my bed, I realise I’m stood
in a queue for new tonsils and seven
rolls of toilet paper. Oh! Shit! I need
twenty-nine rolls to decorate this Palace,
before I invite the old gang to a dahlia
tasting. I’ve toked flowers, but my bad
carnation trip now makes me stick to pine cones.
Salaam number 29. This is the other universe.
for Irina (on your birthday, February 5)
It is me in the quiet hours. Let me
see your soul in the sirens, give me
the last wish I have on Earth. And in
between putting on shoes and artifices, I
somehow whisper from this page the
enormity, the consequence of love. And in
every real and imagined light, I seek
a definition beyond me, I seek
memory, spark, a fire that more than
burns, less than wounds, greater than
the universe, less than this sonnet. Just
less. A lot greater. Perhaps there is a
comma out of place in my intent,
but not in my smile.