All this floating is ridiculous,
and the stars,
urgent or imminent: it's a penny in a fusebox
to a den of slime, the octopus'
and the clouds come, and driving
but in truth it looks like time
changed without permission, lonesome
to once again fit and fill their
or nestled on the wide, upturned brim of a hat.
the matters of course ticked off
a chandelier has bloomed like a
APOGEAN began in my mind (where else?) with a different title which, if kept, might have produced an entirely different poem. That title was "Paul Guests Greatest Hits," a cheeky enough title, I suppose. My idea was for the poem to be an anthology, of sorts, of various moves that seem to appear repeatedly in my poems. Someone more comfortable with such language might call them tropes. I wanted to do a commentary on my own poems, using a poem of my own. I spent several Sunday afternoon hours getting nowhere with the poem; I couldn't find the right approach to it, the right way in. It was a gorgeous mid-autumn day and I was hungry, so I did what I rarely allow myself to do: leave a poem mid-way in its writing, though in this case I was hardly in the middle of anything, except a headache. So I went for a walk, and had lunch, and at some point, flashed on the word apogean. Dropping the jokey, winking tone of the original title/idea proved to oil the wheels and hinges up in my head. By the time I'd hurried home the first two stanzas were largely written. The poem is an anodyne against loneliness, using some of the trusty figures that my imagination seizes upon to animate all kinds of absence: of gravity, of light, of love, of simple company.