Saturday, December 12, 2009

I know more wrote than read that book which is the self I am

When I had my vision
like the dark structures
of communication
turning somewhat lucid
I thought these
borrowed breaths
could picnic
for a century
and that distance
could allow the windmills
to stall and dry
into an afternoon's landscape.
And my dear child
will you ever know
how I saw the great
ohio ember
the rain move
like a hand with its palms
raised
the admission of the strange
the fuzz
that one sees
looking across the impermanent shore.
This is the mystery
that I am doing to myself.




Wednesday, December 9, 2009






And sometimes we hear
the tree run, the water erode
the stone grow

Leaving Home

Some of
us,
remember leaving
home in the morning,
exploring
the bayous,
fishing with bread,
catching hermit crabs
catching a fly
to put into
venus-flytraps
growing wild
in the meadow
eating sour weed.

All Life is like this Afteroon

All life is like this afternoon on your young sandy face the weight of the stars the body tasting like snow a slipcover of communic...