NEAR PROVIDENCE 2.9.21

”Kant strikes one as having been terrified of everything hyperbolic. A deeper sense of the nothing of finitude and contingency would have helped…” Desmond, G&B 131.

The transparency

of air and water after

Ida is beyond

description. Piled clouds

add canyons of light to sur-

faces of no depth.

This non-sequitur

world shames the categories

of Kant’s subtle mind.

.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 1.9.21

The first of two days

of rain, they say. I’m counting,

starting over. Tap

tap on the roof in

September was sweet music

to my ears until

things got a little

apocalyptic; climate

a whole new ballgame.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 31.8.21

”The finite let be as finite points back beyond itself again, and in its given inexhaustibility points to the radical excess of the absolute origin, reserved in itself in its light inaccessible.” Desmond, G&B 127

They say loneliness

has no color. I watch light

fade from the water.

Black is a color.

People love chilly Autumn

for bright foliage

and private reasons.

Sparrows call it a day. Trees

whisper sweet nothings.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 30.8.21

My neighbor’s uncut

grass radiant at sundown.

The August air chilled.

In cutoffs and clogs,

his college-bound daughter strides

alone to the Bay.

Everything must change

but not yet. It’s a perfect

moment for a walk.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 29.8.21

Life is a journey.

Butterflies flit between blos-

soms as August ends.

Petals drift in the

cove. Life’s a journey, we say.

Words to conjure with.

Butterflies, petals

wander through my mind. Master

Chuang looks at the fish.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 28.8.21

A foretaste of Fall.

At high tide the cove moon-calm,

ducks barely moving.

No point in going

home to face my desk stacked with

the usual bills.

My visiting fly

will be waiting for me; it

knows I don’t kill flies.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 27.8.21

In the distance, peals

of thunder. Sparrows take dust

baths in closed work sites.

Sweaty from my walk,

I peel off my shirt and turn

on the garden hose.

Basho says, sabi

is the poem’s color. All

things blossom in time.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 26.8.21

What I see of it

in the shadows beneath the

pier, the white of the

egret is whiter

than the August sun. It steps

and turns, steps and turns.

Seeing this mortal

elegant being in its

reserve is a gift.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 25.8.21

”… we cannot know why the world is and how it is given to be in the first place, but only that it is there, even though it could be ‘not to be’ there at all.” Takeshi Morisato

A loose-knit jumble

of cloud stretched over the Bay.

A mesh of August

light. The ill-defined

glare of it questioned the thing,

an aporia

to my walking muse.

Somewhere as summer passes

sounds the mourning dove.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 24.8.21

Hurricane Henri

has cleared out. Some brilliant swans

regroup on the Bay.

Across the water they

outshine the little sailboats.

The onboard talk can

be heard where I sit

and eavesdrop —summer gossip—

of Henri, nothing.