the beaded nib

it is not cynical fear
eroding our time in incessant beats,
even while we squat and sleep,

then twins our thoughts
with what lurks the elephant

among us, whose proper name we will learn
when death shows up in the teacher’s robe
and each of us dusty under tasseled mortarboards

it is not not-knowing fear
warping strong backs to wishy-bones

even brave warriors have whimpered tears
at what hides darkly mute between the beats
it is not fear; only acknowledgements:

graves are cold, silent and lonely places
where the eventual absence of now

magnifies raw the absolute rarity of love
death’s core encoded in our RNA messages
choreographed by choices, chances and moods

places of birth, incomes and neighborhoods
magnifies raw the absolute rarity of love

love does not suffer the teacher’s dreams
meant for our mortal stardust beings;
love is dimension bound

etched in stone and books
a dichotomy resolves, then transforms now

meanings lurk close beneath the idea
just as the point rests, beading the pen’s nib
to be disclosed when the ink beaded point
swells then spreads its universes onto silent paper.