Nick Corvino
“Those things that are large beyond
enumeration, are not us” but
where? The ocean,
too, yearns, tosses its stiff uniform,
then churns silence into itself.
The immensity
in continued being
can’t grasp
what’s grasping. Tendrils
(real, and olive feathered) that spore
on our limbless curiosities—
how
stone grows from damp air.
When two oceans embrace they
remain as both absolute. The nausea
in ourselves (that inflation
of uncurdled wisdom) does not infiltrate
into that modest luminance of another’s.
The moon
as example,
is sovereign and beyond capture and
yet glows patiently in our thin pocket.
Our souls are nowhere, or
we have misnamed them.
For what they are, they are not
in our shapeless heads. They suffuse
down our embering shoulders, lucid
breasts, horizonless ribs. They grow
everywhere, through everything;
untwining the lattice of our skin, translating
into different names the same gaseous crop.
What is bodiless
about the ocean, is what
is sublime in thought of us.
Beware
that starless deepness.
It is more sweet than ice.
Nick Corvino has poems in Eunoia Review, Jersey Devil Press, The Haven, and Helicon Literary & Arts Magazine.
