at the beach I combed for metaphor
but found only sensation, like the lone line
of seagulls flying so precisely so close
to the crests of the largest waves,
their compatriots sighing bored
beside me, while low clouds revealed the sun
by dimming it to a bounded circle;
stymied I prompted simile,
but when writing is like cooking,
for oneself or (anxiously) others,
it is unforgiving of rationalization, kind
only to the honest laze;
and though writing is like a muscle
when we lift our words so we may grow,
so too may it plateau, require unlearning
and humility;
thus it became clear I could lean
on no analogy to speak for me
the joyful worry of attraction
in a time of careful distance,
the savor of each drip of context
against the backdrop of kitchens, the hope
of a thing unquantified finding form
amidst virii vain with numbers; oh!
the thrill of uncertainty
in these overdetermined times;
and pondering this I drove home, barely
noticing a spiralled cloud looking just
like a rocket's first-stage exhaust
before it turns
to find orbit.