Fall 2001
You've concocted for me a self that is spun and useless
In an angriness of storm that haunts every minute
Until I'm deaf and dumb and aching blindly for you.
I could weather you and this and
The shaking core of me...
Were it not for the intoxicating power the fury has
To make a rage mimic lullabies instead of wrath;
For how, unsteadily rocking, you define my motion.
It may spin and beat and unbalance me,
But I have grown a taste for it, like sea legs
Never again quite able to adjust
To the dull sobriety of land.
You may spin me, you may divide me from myself,
Your layers that beguile and confuse me
May shudder me into a length of storm...
But the truth is,
I owe the turbulence of me to the turbulence of you,
And I'm not quite ready
To be steady again.
