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Poem

Every single God-granted map
Real and illusory
Points to the same 
Joy-screamed madness
That: Life is bubbles!
The cousin I never met
A brilliant gem of
A human cut from the
Same block of
Pulsing love that pre-dates,
Pre-births all material Earth, and the
Botany, musical and massive,
The seasons, turning and
Blood-forming, forming the
Fibers of the Cape as
My uncle, twenty-eight years estranged,
Shows me--me, with the awe-struck
Shock of eight million miracles.
I tremble through my own 
Blood working, pumping, and 
Traversing all around me on
The crisp grass managed by
A father who knows quiet 
Love, practiced and performed
Through riotous reunion.

An uncle I've only now met.
A cousin now grown and giving, 
Giving me more
Coffee as the morning paper 
Bleeds into her Spanish homework
And all other brilliant trimmings the 
Family mills through the lines of property as...
That I ran out of time for--four days
Is not enough.
But forty days was just right. 
And if we took that trek 
We would sprint into the
Throughness of the blackness
Of the night, arm and arm or not at all,
As individual as we please to be
(And do we ever please to be)                   
With an army of lungs quaking from each
Spiked song, smoking out and into all forty nights

And we grab each other without touching
Through the fog, unexpectedly, heartpoundingly,
Letting all things, real and illusoreal,
Just be.
And that's all family really
Demands of us, anyway.
To just be.
Just be there.
And feel the mad-sparks bubble.
Let the love-barks rumble.
And the sadness, crumble
Through our sacred union of hands.

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