Entre Nous

Entre Nous



or, between the greater us, enter the notes that

more-than-not define our mealstock ways.

A terrapin crosses Steinbeck’s road,

then signals life in the demise

of Casanova’s wanderlust:

tales rife with fitful

sorrow, fit for

anyone if

not us.



No one

quite knows

the peripatetic

strength that is the

turtle’s shell: a devotee

of Walker Percy cries openly

at his adumbrated sense of carapace

the staunch within/without that shoulders

passing days, the primal drive that agonizes pain.



                                                                              And so

                                                                                    crawling

                                                                                   clumsily along, 

                                                                               & basking, or diving 

                                                                          in qua-submerged milieux

                                                                   we take whatever floats our way

                                                       and mouth it for a while, and call it grist

                                         for ever-present vows: the future of our kind,

                       the past-perfected nows & shells of time and space.



                    The first book I wrote, age 6—wistful beyond a why

             was ‘The Turtle Who Wanted to Hop”. A bunny

          who found him no evident threat thought

        that springs on its feet would do the

          trick. ‘The End’ gave notice to

             no turning back, no sigh

                  (between us) that

                        wiring fortune

                                won’t go