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"But Waves, They Scatter"
is the name of this poem.

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"But Waves, They Scatter."

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"From beneath the
icefield, longing

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looks up at the lovers who,
variously meandering, stalling

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or not, fucking or not,
guess nothing of him.

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Torturer sometimes.

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Known also to have been
a savior eventually,

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hard passage to a life
worth the hardness.

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You would think longing
lived in a space

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warmer than an icefield,
you would think so.

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Tragedies are happening
everywhere in the world,

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beside things that aren't
technically tragedies,

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though they include
suffering, pain,

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death in it's more
humiliating versions,

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to remind that some of
us will be less spared,

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and some will not.

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Up through the icefield,
longing watches

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the lovers who, in turn,
look down, or away, laughing.

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Each time, they miss the
icefield for the flowers

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that, despite the cold,
somehow grow there.

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Distraction's the
bluer, and more abundant

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flower, black at the edges.

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Joy is the other."

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