Something Like Always
Navaris Darson

When I miss him most
(something like always)

I remind myself:
that he is everywhere

that matter is an magick trick

that we’re all stardust orphans
descended from a cosmic birth

and everything is mystically
bound by a secret magnetism

that if he dances in the world
so should I

because we are always ribboned

that if I stanch misery’s crimson flow,
I can (faintly) lull my languishing port

and with a grateful palm
on the swelling chest,
I can feel him - pulsing
at the heart of the hollow

present in the honey glaze
and the smoked spice
in tea balm and mug rim,
in pepper and pine

alive in the rich resonance
of the bumbled hum
and the escalator chromatics

of reed whistle and whale bellow

also in the undulating silk
that glints in the sunlight

and the pink trumpet bells
that softly float

in the unflinching
periwinkle gaze—

my fortune willed

to note him in the medley
and cotton him in the cobble

to merely divine

that he is in the blender
and we are blended

November 16, 2019