The Round

All these anemones have bored us;
the Collected Coleridge drags. Dusk,
like ether, enters from the fjords of
greater Greece and holds us in our husks.

This ill inertia — this joy that jaded
Kubla Khan — has lingered and lured us.
For months, mesmerized and naked,
we've ogled the ocean's perfunctory progress.

How quickly quiescence, like rust, can ruin
the shining thought of some terminus,
and unfettered view turns vertiginous,
all wishes wane. Let the Xanadu

I've yenned for be you: my zenith, my zen
and zeal yet to begin again.

Copyright © 2004 Jon Mooallem All rights reserved
from The Formalist
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission