Where you are, Wystan,
the forecast this cold day is
for clear skies. The whole

ocean shines. In this
Pacific North West valley
the end is in sight:

the planet dying
of the human. Wystan, you
held out for good form.

I watch the waves come
in, perfect Hokusai waves!
In their white collapse,

good appears in hind-
sight and the promise of form
rides on their return.


This self-effacing
verse in praise of soft rain is,
too, way radical.

The green on our ger-
rimandered walls radiant
on our darkest days.

Yes moss takes no heat.
Its phosphorescent witness
strengthens our weak knees.


Here in this noisy

cafe I sit with Dante,

Milosz, and this new


Irish poet Bell—

Amanda Bell. I spend hours

with these companions.


Despite the noise, it’s

peaceful. Sometimes the silence

gives up a poem.


Sometimes the radio

shocks me with a beautiful

song — Alison Mo-


yet “Other”— and a

space opens up inside me

so it can flourish.


I may continue

to do the dishes but it’s

not me, I’m not there.


As long as the song

lasts I let my heart go how-

ever the song goes.