Symbiosis In Loud Water
I stood on my head in the boat;
by john temple finnigan
you accepted my offer of my only rose;
gondolier Giovanni freaked somewhat, my theory
being that Canaletto entered a bloodstream,
him and Vivaldi, in a season of collaborations
such as professors cannot quantify, it with
its cutthroat sunbeams balling up Baroque, Rococo,
lightsigns competing in anecdotal rippling.
We ebbed and flowed within whispered confidences,
great love often working old, forbidding watercourses:
we shall swoon towards some aggrandized ocean
in a time of times, edging to its swirling climax, where
echoes bombard in inner ears, our fractioned selves
an egg of metamorphosis, then out the other end.
We feel we have a message: No Odyssey but the Odyssey;
no curriculum but the next craft arriving at Arrivals.