Green’s violence bursts from budding trees.
My stupid heart, entrained to spring,
shakes off the freeze and tries to sing
of loves it’s never known but sees.
Cocked Brows and Shots Across Bows
Your life, though near to me, removed
from me in temperament and taste,
seems somehow fast to me, unmoved
by currents’ tow or tidal waste,
and I, unmoored, adrift along
the shore of you, remain withdrawn,
if close enough to choose recourse,
weather rebuff, accept rapport.
We are, as are all things, pluripotent,
and as this mug blues in a certain light
then plums into black with the growing night,
relation spurs what in us lies latent,
reveals the hidden and births the nascent.
Likewise, our romance now serves as a site
where aspects emerge, where powers ignite,
awakening selves formerly dormant.
I’m not lost in you. You’re not lost in me.
In love, we have not become inconsistent;
rather, together, assemblages bloom,
which are not the ends of either’s “to be,”
but by our affection broaden existence,
producing new lives where potencies loom.
Richard Porter is but a lowly reference clerk who jumps rope with the Kansas/Missouri border. His poetry has appeared in The Asses of Parnassus, Better Than Starbucks, Grand Little Things, and Wine Cellar Press.