Bucking bull chained.
His dangling septum ring clangs,
golden or iron-wrought,
winged or Atlassian,
8 seconds of madness then
unrecognizable sideways glances and…
You, an unbroken link
can trace your line in
puddle jumpers, layovers and
trans-Atlantic migrations, that
uprooting of plugs planted in new land,
tilled before and after by hands
that clasped your own. Locked,
intertwined, in bed
aboard the Lusitania that life
sank, but you are firm.
Grounded, entrenched, while others
found their beds in trenches. You
passed on beyond
letters, email chains, and encrypted MMS
to profess your perfectly
ordinary, depressive longing
for meaning beyond dumb luck.