NEAR PROVIDENCE 25.5.22

WORK IN PROGRESS

“…there is no lost feast at the bottom of memory…” Hass paraphrasing Pinget

I stop by to see

the swan. Spring light graces its

long neck. I’m aware

the swan I see is

different: it’s head

and half its neck plunged beneath

the dark water. Were

I a poet not

a bottom feeder, I would

not feel a thing now.

Sun on the swan’s back—

salt and fresh brimmimg, the cove

is full of goodness.

……

NEAR PROVIDENCE 24.5.22

White gulls squeal over

Narragansett Bay. I hear

the screams of women,

children, and elders

massacred by Puritans.

The gulls rise and fall,

timelessly, in time.

That is not all. These gulls

renew eternity.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 22.5.22

WORK IN PROGRESS

“By thinking about the singular as the singular (i.e., an irreducible this), we find the passage to the divine origin from which its incontrovertible onceness is derived.” Takeshi Morisato, Faith and Reason, 185.

I almost tripped o-

ver it. High summer’s mirror,

empty, leaning there,

a motorcycle,

cold metal, dreamed in light of

the road ahead. Some-

one’s, now away from

it, maybe watching me look

at myself in it

and finding nothing

beyond the beauty of the

bike, his pride and joy.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 19.5.22

“…the ‘infinite reserve’ of divine nothingness as the transcendent ground of all things…” Takeshi Morisato, Faith and Reason, 168

WORK IN PROGRESS

Why I take these walks

is not at all clear to me

on overcast spring

days. I have to wait

a long time in the drizzle

for the difference

between the waves and

the ducks to appear, but when

it does, gray is not

gray. Nothingness is

nothing but makes room for this—

waves, ducks, gray poets

who, among others,

companion me on my re-

turns to these spaces.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 16.5.22

“We can be lulled into a false sense of philosophy with respect to abstract dialectic; as if that, and only that, were philosophy; and not the emergence of thinking from an ambiguous ethos; not also the reinsertion of thought in the flow of life itself.” William Desmond The Voiding of Being, 177.

Big white boats tower

above the ducks at low tide.

In the spring sunshine,

the boats promise flight, the ducks

enjoy a few feet

of muddy water

in the shadow of the boats.

Poets dream journeys,

but I come down here

in shirtsleeves and sketch what

seems lit from below.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 14.5.22

“Once the single individual realizes its finitude through its genuine self-criticism, it comes to realize its ground in what is other to itself.” Takeshi Morisato, Faith and Reason, 165.

The old Greylag Goose

couple loll in the Spring sun.

They own the boathouse.

Before your death, I

imagined us growing old,

inseparable, gray

if not white, like them.

Relatively simple lives

got complicated.

Now my life, simple

like theirs, has those rare moments

shared by animals.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 10.5.22

WORK IN PROGRESS

“Would it be correct to say our concepts reflect our life?
They stand in the middle of it.” Wittgenstein, Remarks on Color III 302

It seems unlikely

but cresting, crusting Bay waves

once again roll in.

Last time seemed the first

and last time that Spring prevailed

over the world’s weight.

Ducks flap over ice-

edges and keep their balance.

Nothing comes to mind

like this. I awake

to what is other to thought

and the death of thought.

What I don’t know gives

me a lift as I let go

of my mind’s deep flow.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 7.5.22”

“Our posthumous thinking, which releases us beyond the bounds of the rational universal, also cultivates our attentiveness to the divine otherness at work in determining processes of becoming.” Takeshi Morisato, Faith and Reason, 131.

Susurration and

loud birds over my head as

I walk under old

trees renewed for now.

For now I walk without pain.

It’s been a good walk,

solitary, com-

panioned by the gift of time.

I wave to the dogs

that bark from trim yards

sporting Black Lives Matter signs.

They know their limits.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 4.4.22

An egret lands mid-

bay on this soft day, itself

a dim splash out there.

The other side, gray,

green-gray. This side, Trinity’s

bells leap space and time.

I count syllables,

my way to play a part in

what goes on and on.

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