Tug

Neither quiet nor blatant desperation
govern or underly my work.
So I commute with anticipation,
return with a soft fatigue,
settle into other worlds easily,
as my work world depends not
simply on me.
Now lies ahead a weekend
in the summertime
(as have so many
since beginning of the season,
which is one reason for my absence in artistic endeavors)
and a breeze sweeps across these river banks,
whispering sweet promises of handmade pasta,
light wine and fleeting kisses,
bare feet and nighttime cinema out in the open.
So far, so trivial. And frail and fleeing, too.
If only it wouldn’t go by so fast.
If only it would linger a bit
and open up the view right through
to what tugs on these most inner fabrics
unyieldingly and frequently.
But my hunch is:
This will not subside.
This is the tension
as vast and true as the horizon,
stretching toward the promised land
to eventually take a stroll in.
As little sense as it makes
its presence is monumental
and so worth swimming in.
So here it comes:
another naked dive into this utterly
small and significant summertime.