A Sleeping Song

Bag of memory
and desire, I lay you down
at my feet and sleep.

Let the dreams disturb
my sleep. I reach down and touch
you: you haven’t moved.

There is a moment
before dawn when I have no
desire or memory;

I’m released beyond
myself, a window open
to a nameless love.

Such Mercies

Is “almost” ever
enough? Quasimodo Sun-
day after Easter.

We are all foundlings
in this world. A sharp wet wind
in my face feels good.

The fresh green branches
thrash and flutter in the sky,
which makes me happy.

Such mercies! Chuang
Tzu taught the love of self, cold
when cold, warm when warm.

Terror/Terroir

Yet another wet
day. The tyrant’s terror ex-
tended another

wet day. Innocents
plucked from their communities.
It just goes on and

on. Terror is con-
structed daily of bodies.
The more released in-

termedium im-
itated here resists terror:
the ancient terroir

of soil, clouds, rain, sun,
patience, work, hopefulness,
trust in good verses.

On Poets

There are agenda
poets — something must be done,
and now — and they’re good

as the cause is good.
For poets without a cause,
good and evil squint,

pressing out the tears.
World is already the case.
Lacrimae rerum.

First

Before the first clouds
roll in, the streets around here
shine with a misty

crust — broken glass but
there’s been no accident. “Look,
don’t think.” We have no

word for this. It’s Spring
and early and about to
rain. This happens here.

White Nights

A sliding glass door
that showed my father’s garden
was my bedroom wall
before I left home.
At night when I wrote the dark
made it a mirror.
Sometimes a pale face
appeared, myself looking up
from a darkened page.

Ceci and I

As often as I
must pick up the cat so I
can sit in the chair

she occupies, she
must wake and does so slowly.
The space between us

opens to the gift
of being as we look and look
in each other’s eyes.

It’s a sort of spell,
a wordless tuneless song of
being together.

Sometimes I get caught
up in the moment of her
sweet indifference.