Recurring

 

Whatever the time of day, whether the sky is florescent,
                   or fluorescent, or dissolving color

to impression, or I'm not tracking the sky, perhaps for once
                   not inhabiting the subjunctive mood,

whether with a beloved, whose face is turning away—no
                   matter if I am in fact alone, on a beach,

looking out toward the doctrine of horizon, there is
                   always, in the dream, a wall of water

before me, impossible to outrun, azure, cruel, how
                   beauty exists with no regard for goodness or the living,

and if I'm inside, even if I cannot see that weather,
                   I can feel it, eroding the floorboards, disintegrating

reason, it is ceaseless. It has an appetite.

 

--Patrycja Humienik