NEAR PROVIDENCE 29.4.22

WORK IN PROGRESS

“What’s ragged should be left ragged.” Wittgenstein, Culture and Value, 45.

In the pale Spring air

echo steady hammer blows

from high roofers. At

my feet swirl lucent

blossoms from the pear. Look up,

look down: the whole world

is background for this

and this! All’s subspecie

aeternitatis.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 27.4.22

WORK IN PROGRESS

At last the fidelity of things opens our eyes— Zbigniew Herbert

Spring sunshine. Children

underfoot on the cafe

patio. Journey

done. Empty regrets.

Radiance forsworn to catch

the next train. Always

moved by moving on.

Now, the final fermata,

this helpless laughter.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 24.4.22

WORK IN PROGRESS
The world can save us—Wong May

What is grief’s other?

I walk and walk and walk. I

pass the sunning ducks,

green or emerald

where they float. I pass the Bay,

cold cobalt toward

sundown. Your colors,

we’d say. Now the world’s colors.

Grief returns the world.

Your colors endure,

walk after walk. The emptiness

you left fills with them.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 20.4.22

WORK IN PROGRESS

An ornamental

lemon tree, the patio

in dry Bakersfield—

boyhood companion-

ing cool solitude.

I’d sit out there and watch it.

Tiny white blossoms,

sour, grape-sized fruit, slow

slow invisible growth. This

taught me how to write.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 18.4.22

WORK IN PROGRESS

It takes some ego

to push yourself out the door

on a cold April

morning for a walk

and see crowding your neighbor’s

yard blazing crabap-

ple trees. Take your walk.

Other power will become

self power as you

pass exuberant

dogwood trees spreading the news:

Go slow: Nirvana.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 17.4.22

Holy Saturday.

When Jesus arrived in Hell,

it was quite empty,

until we heard the news.

There are other narratives.

We all talked at once.

Later I watched an

egret liftoff over me.

That empty fullness.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 14.4.22

WORK IN PROGRESS

I moseyed out to

a spot on the breakwater.

A sunny April

unseasonable

day for a look at the Bay.

But all I saw was

bareness —a raw stump

where an old twisted pine had

framed the immense blue.

The shock wore off as

I wandered away thinking:

O Maunday Thursday!

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