DRIP DROP

Drip drop.

 

On this drunken and very alive strand and end

and beginning ( sorry, yes, every end is a beginning).

Drip drop

while I am getting drunk

in silence and with silence and real wine

and while you recede like

The Great Gatsby’s waves

back somewhere, out of reach

but still somewhere I’m sure, each to each.

Drip drop, with your many voices,

electronic mail messages, text messages, and s and s and s...

the reassuring plural.

Spreading out like a renewal,

an always brand-new ether

always enjoying a glorified end, or beginning, of the tether…

wanting anyway to be alive

in this jungle of sprouting and smart spites.

A Drip drop of echoes

and echoes of echoes..that keep making me think:

what are our voices

and what are we, really?

All there is is this

Drip drop into questions and answers

and some of us waiting

for the answer that answers,

in the crowded desert where we are journeying

and elbowing in.

In the clamor of the drunken strand and in the silence

streaming.

 

Drip drop.