Up and down the campus he goes, chatting
With clouds and trees or a bee worrying
The hive of his beard. His brow has billows
For he thinks like the sea. He has his lows,
Yet knows there always is another high,
And just in time the sea comes rolling by
To prove him right. He has rid himself of
All hubris and gabs in the tongue of love
Which is the tongue of rain on stone, of stone
On leaf, of leaf on wind, of wind on bone.
He has given up on our wants and wars,
And passes cleanly through a virtual port,
Yet the ocean rouses him when it roars
And settles him roaring back into thought.
Source:
Poetry
(July/August 2019)
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