philosophy + some poetry:
the wind and the water

ყავისფერი ბამბა

Ecstatic churning
of a man’s eager fable

discover how
that tilt in the hourglass
creates small bumps
on my skin.

I navigate these while you sit
across from me,
waiting for
the inevitable union
of the shepherd and our equal loneliness -
we must have come here
to confess our sin.

That stone mirror you gifted me;
veiled behind it
secrets of your clawed-back, textural liberation
long for the muse that ridges into
that canyon’s rare grief.

Of course,
when I hear
six children sing-counting to “sami,”
when I see
her playing piano
surrounded by friends
crying from laughter, drinking saperavi,
it all seems to return to longing, eternal,
that is fed like
toddlers’ night terrors
by all the things you do not know yet;
my inner world for you
remains wound in your web of non-belief.

Does that make us protectors?

Or do we drift into
hungry clutches
of shredders of needles;
those who wait for the rapture in no-time,
build crochet vests with strings of lightning
that happened to weave
directly over my heart?

I have met you and lost you
one thousand times,
but every time
feels completely raw,
though I can imagine
it must feel old by now
when summer eats through
our peaches’ furs
and our fear of each other
is the same moment
we drift everlastingly apart.


© 2025 joey largent