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Old self, transcendent
companion, gladiator
in time’s arena,

this could be it: let’s
retire from the ring, book a
cruise, get to know each

other. We (plural)
have one origin; we are
not done becoming.

Even short poems,
if music be not lacking,
make it all worth it.

The swing is the thing—-
‘between the words?’ (Mark Fiddes)—-
a sign in excess,

ecstatic. Humans
are given to music. Despair
dissolves in music.

Another matte day.
Almost noon and no sun yet.
Everything wet though.

Light oozes inward-
ly without giving away
any deep secrets.

My overworked eyes
take comfort in the gifts of
chiaroscuro.

Midwinter lifting.
More light in the canopy
of patient branches.

Our marriage shocked us.
(I had to sew a button
on my best white shirt.)

Your untimely death
has prepared a room for you
where silence opens.

There are two sides to
all things: the heart’s wall, pale twigs
of infinity.

Master is hung up
on ‘the’ in the phrase ‘the Way.’
It troubles his sleep

and mine. The duvet
twisted around him, he tries
to forget the Way.

In the morning I
sit in front of my bowl but
he goes back to bed.

I leave some vomit
for him to clean up. We reach
high by bending low.

Silence is over-
rated by the cheap mystics.
We know otherwise.

God is quite noisy.
Birds, children, oceans, all
give voice to one voice.

Silence can be nice.
Between the fat waves surfers
sit on their surfboards.

The moon over the
pines is what I remember.
Young and a poet,

about to leave home.
Ulysses left home again
and again. I know

what home is: the moon-
lit valley under Heaven’s
emptiness (Tu Fu).