“We Through Mists Descry” – Dean Young

Yet let not each gay Turn thy Rapture move,
For Fools Admire, but Men of Sense Approve;
As things seem large which we thro’ Mists descry,
Dulness is ever apt to Magnify.  -Alexander Pope

So much energy. People buying watermelons,
boarding airplanes, watching their parents die,
and writing poems about it while above throbs
the celestial. I love how sadness can turn
celebratory, the childlike apocalyptic.
Bees return to their hives, freighted
with nectars. Shadows rise from the mud,
flinging back their wet hair and even though
this seashell is very small, it's still singing
about the void. Often great tension arises
between sincerity and rhetoricity imposing
vague profundities. Outside a man is failing
to push-start his car, albeit a very polished car.
Remember how rash Apollo was even while inventing
calculus? He did it to impress ome skinny kid
milking a goat after all. Let's not forget 
the head in the furnace, how burning is
laughing and laughing is also crying out.
When my father died, I saw his spirit snag
in a tree, a woman running across a parking lot,
windows full of smoke. When my father died,
his spirit snagged in a tree then left behind
its last body of plastic bags. I saw the sky
wring its blue until it cracked and oils
leaked out. I thought I was seeing everything
and could turn off the whte light with a switch.
Even is it's only skin-deep, once you derive
the area, consider how the skin goes into
the ears, behind the eyes, down the throat,
that's an awful lot of beauty. Satellite dishes
in every yard, shiny shiny stars. I'd like to be
completely free but I want everything to belong to me.
You fall upon the roses of life and bleed
and people think you're a fool. But later,
at the cash bar, the disputants are transformed
by the lips of their eyes, the sex organs
of exhaled smoke. Once someone tried
to sell me a surge protector for every room.
Once a praying mantis chrysalis hatched in my desk.