HOW MUCH PAIN CAN YOU HOLD INSIDE UNTIL THE RESERVOIR EVAPORATES
How much pain can you hold inside before the reservoir evaporates
into the great sky of awareness like a watershed waterbird
crying out in anguish for something that’s frightened it
looking into the long dwindling journey ahead.
The distances. The distances. The distances
from one sea to the next like a waterclock that never stops.
Like the human heart with a wheelhouse pulse.
The eye of the storm your only oasis for miles around.
You become spectral, dissociated, unglued, unbound
as a Promethean god freed by Shelley,
metastasizing in your liver like vultures eating it
for crimes of fire you were a good thief at.
The damage unto the privilege of the fatuous gods
you have done and there’s nothing but nothing
they can do back to you now for it but chain you
to a rock in the Caucasus and hope it hurts.
There’s a fire in the starfields I can see from here
and a scarecrow poet try to blow the flames out
on his jester’s long sleeves. The fire god came looking for fire
and he found it under my t shirt like a burning fox
I didn’t tell anybody about on the bridges I’ve crossed.