Benjamin Vogt


Just the sound of the monarch on lavender is.
          February snow across the fields
          and in that insulation of infinite
          space miles of silence carefully
          placed on every bare object.

Two of us are not one but an ocean of.
          Galaxies undulating
          hurricanes on satellite
          letters rising from the table
          in a sudden breeze.

Roads are something fearfully near as.
          Fires in the hills and
          yellow jackets in the eaves and
          any moment may be
          at any moment love.




Relationships with others will always be incomplete, and once they are nearly complete we will not want that, though we do. We need the stagnate silence of the distance / closeness irony to love sublimely. Don't you think? [link]