By the Sea Looking in Vain for the Sons of Poe

By the sea and when the

morning comes,

people appear

learning again

the art of slow walk

and its quiet point,

so sadly missed 

all those years

of feverish and fervent 

busy-ness to make

what serves

as a stand-in 

for all things,

both real and unreal,

which doesn’t allow

one to serve the good

for its own sake,

for only true

and pure souls

or true Platonists

could have their

communist utopia,

but you shouldn’t 

try it with the devils

as Russia proved

with the help

of all the other

devils who fought

and could not stand it.

But here where the land

ends and the sea begins,

slow walk for its own sake,

like love simply for loving

for which no one needs be paid,

hired, fired, or enslaved,

is like a long-lost dream

to which some have been

somehow again awakened.

Haven’t the greatest things

in life been—didn’t they have 

to be—gifts to us, free gifts 

of a free will and not loans,

titles, loans, licenses, or pays?

Oh, let the art of slow walk

be blessed—slow enough to

notice that you breathe

and how freely each breath 

comes in and goes out again

to keep you live and sentient.

And in that unhurriedness

something returns and expands

and what expands opens

what has been closed or

even dead—for, you learn,

one shouldn’t—cannot rush

headlong through a wonder.