out of the deep

unplumbable depths thought forms an abyss
out of which swim shapes beautiful and strange
not monsters these they neither roar nor hiss
but immense and universal is their range
motions in memory are portents of the new
the entities that surface though are old
what they can see is only what we view
what they know is all that we've been told
yet they have power that we cannot achieve
an elegance that's far beyond our making
their limits only what we can conceive
their boundaries nonetheless beyond our taking
unmarred they are by our own toils and cares
and hearkening to the music of the spheres

at last the wait is over

there's a false reading on the little screen
heat of deep summer one the edge of cold
outside the sky is deep blue and serene
i sit in here look at papers and feel old
a simple statement makes me almost gasp
more common are the misstatements of fact
the joyous disregard of sense the rasp
of bad ideas uttered without the least tact
outside the sun is bright the local cat
has come by on his walk and sniffed around
my mind is driven mad by the insistence that
any idea works any structure must be sound
so back to the task back to the siberian mines
to see if any sense is lying between the lines

on reading student essays

there's a new reality behind each page
the world with a sour twist not fated
the end results a not-so-silent rage
a sudden moment now unintegrated
no simple blindness can account for this
such tone-deaf answers as implode the mind
the stultifying horrid mental hiss
the failure to comprehend plain humankind
what matters now is simply that i plod
through this high pile without a single scream
the absence here of vivifying rod
to separate the waking from the dream
what matters that i dreamed and hoped and taught
if in these minds so little has been caught