On this drunken and very alive strand and end
and beginning ( sorry, yes, every end is a beginning).
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