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.

On Immanence

So you must decide
where to make the cut but leave
immanence untouched.

“No one invents the
quiet that runs through the grass”
(Burnside, his text on

“the gift of the world,
the undecided”). The space
between decisions

itself immanent,
is not constructed but found
as a gift is found.

John Burnside, “II: SI DIEU N’EXISTAIT PAS, IT FAUDRAIT L’INVENTER” in GIFT SONGS (2007)

Easter

After months of rain,
a dry windless pale-green day,
and Easter day, too.

Unconditional
love, as unconditioned, comes
from emptiness, the

“fertile void” (Desmond)
(thinking through Merton’s Zhuangzi
here because it fits).

Is the tomb of god
a sign of such emptiness?
Could be, could be. Un-

conditional love,
as unconditioned, supports
no such narrative.

We acknowledge our
folly in community
with old hymns, dances.