Tides
by Craig
Kirchner
I just read that every
poem is a miracle,
I’m sitting at an
intersection in the
middle of the
desert, there is a pressure,
starts at the
diaphragm, rises through the throat,
seeking to get
past the ears, to the top of the head—
call it high tide
in a sandstorm.
Blood, pressure,
increased brain power,
the possibility of
ideas, new, unique,
worthy of words,
and when the tide goes out—
vertigo, plastic,
trash, a tennis shoe, an old tire,
plaque, vague
memories of almost-ideas,
redo high school
coed, finish college.
Twice a day the
moon steps up—
and of course,
meds, the news, the environment—
to beneficently
bring a low tide, sleep, a dream.
The undertow, REM,
pulls the trash, the waste
out of the psyche,
replaces with id desires,
some normalcy,
nastiness, staves off dementia.
The sun rises; you
could call it a miracle.
The moon is still
in charge, as is coffee,
maybe a line of
thought, some caffeine pressure,
a clean sand beach
to write on, ego strives to recall the id,
a lot must happen
for there to be a poem,
and the light at
the intersection needs to turn green.
