THE ENCOUNTER

I swear, when I wrote this

I didn't know
who would be reading—

but then again, 

I must have known roughly

how it would go, since

I could picture you singing

the tune in your head—
line after line, 

never rushing, never stumbling,

not stopping until 

you got to the end—

as if you knew which word 

should come next 

by heart,

because you and I 

were now the same.
Not entirely, of course,

 
but close enough

to look the part.

It was as if our two souls 

shared a shadow; as if, 

for half a minute there,

we were so busy

that we wouldn't have

remembered, if asked, 

what our names were.

And I realized, 

after all this time, that

that was all I wanted;

the words didn't matter.

It wasn’t quite art—but it was 
a good start.

NEW POETICS

I don't know how 

Aristotle managed 

to miss this, 

but: catharsis 

is gradual;

I mean, it’s 

every little 

blade of a tear

carving-out 

an opening—

ruining your precious 

metal content 

bit by bit

by repeatedly exposing 

some of it 

to the air—but

by doing so, 

in the long run

saving you 

the hassle 

of keeping it all 

together 

and making space 

there.

NOW

All I pretend to own, 

you loaned me; 

all that I know 

or care for 

has only just appeared here—

without my seeing 

how it came, or 

from where.

And when you bear it away—

as I believe you must do

because you have told me so 

repeatedly before—

I suppose I do not have 

to wonder 

what time 

that will be, either. 

NOT FROM CONCENTRATE

How many hundreds 

of millions 

of years have been 

forcibly focused 

through just-this-second's 

lens—and then,

never to be used 

again, discarded as the pulp 

of the spurious past? 

What a terrible 

waste, in fact, that 

that which is now must be 

squeezed-fresh continuously 

from all that has ever happened—

not to mention

how little hope there is 

for this moment's 

perseverance, since 

every hard-won is that ever was 

didn't last much 

past its own definition.

SERMON ON THE LAWN

Bees in the clover
working, diligent
and noiseless—

too busy, 

in fact, to stop 

and challenge us thus

as we drag out
our gas mowers,
edgers, and hoses:

you think you know
how to work,
how to use,

how to speak 

to the taciturn

land like us?

Those who have nothing
want nothing,
gain multitudes;

those who know everything
have everything
to lose.

ASKING THE ORACLE

To the gray-faced gulls 

outside my window, 

husbanded here 

by the breath of the dawn—

though my questions 

number in the millions, 

in this moment, 

I just want to know 

if you think 

every wind is distinct—

or is there, in truth, really 

only one kind 

which gets passed 

around and forward 

in space and in time?

In short, 

is it more

like the seafoam 

which drove you 

to this building, 

or the way 

we all suspect 

that there was

a first yawn—

issued-forth at the end 

of day seven by God,

and ever since then riding 

this great wave of animality 

for untold—

and as-yet-

unfolding-into

eternity—eons? 

TARGET AUDIENCE

Sometimes 

my soul talks 

down to my body;

says I know 

you think you hear 

the wind in the trees—

think you recognize 

the melody—

but you don't 

appreciate it 

like I can, 

since you don't 

understand 

what the lyrics mean.

Which is just 

as well, since, 

from the branches in the breeze, 

to the rippling 

of water and the wild 

screams of flowers—in fact, 

everything 

wafting out from 

life's orchestra pit—

though you may 

catch it, you are not 

the demographic, 

and don't you forget it

whatever you do:

the world may be here

to appear to you—but 

to me, it's here 

to sing.