by Louie Crew

^{Artwork by Christopher Leibow}


Eternity

Suppose the moon never completes its course,
that the seasons are eternal, all,
that full, half, quarter, and new
     are but one face,
     tides high and low forever,
that autumn's shrill crackling leaves
     are the shimmering silky green sprouts

Suppose that love too tastes,
     touches forever,
     wrinkled face or smooth youthful brow,
     and Africa's ebb
     balances America's flow.

The face the moon reveals
     depends on where you are.



What is Ours?

After he had made his dad's bed,
had lotioned his dad's buttocks
     to prevent bed sores,

and had stared lovingly
     into the blank, gray
     unseeing eyes,
he went to
     "The Merry Wives of Windsor"
to escape for two hours
     the old age and dying.

But when Falstaff was trundled off
     in the laundry basket,
it was his dad's laugh,
     memorized when he had been 2 or 3,
which he recognized as his own,
     echoing through the theatre.



Functional Paranoia

There is always dark corner of the moon
to confirm the fears we believe. The new
acqaintance startles with a smile of Pan,
but mind will not let this last,
only recur, like olive with egg.
Our tight lives would be less sad
if we stopped to enjoy the reality they squeeze.

There is always a bright glint in the hell
we live, to confirm the hopes we feel. The old
enemy startles with a sight of ourself
in the curvex of a silver shaving kit, as to say,
"We are both alone and need each other.
Our contrast completes us."