Two Journals

I keep two journals. In the first one there’s

A record of dreams, fantasies and fears

That edge me toward that commonplace, the Brink:

My evidence, that is, for beak or shrink.

On odd days in the second – now more odd,

Alas, than ordinary – I brood on God,

The distant prospect of his love, and bend

Aesthetics and poetics to that end.

Sadly, I can’t conflate them in one text.

There I am crazed, erratic, oversexed,

Here pure, serene and earnest in my quest;

An angel here, there a tormented beast!

So when I write in one, I overlook

Evidence set down in the other book.

So they, between the two of them, divide

The single mind where single truths reside.