i'm not really here

poetry

the motion of no steps  

taken on the path 

that cannot be seen  

will lead to that / which is hidden  

hidden only from us  

for it is only us who are seeking it  

and it is we who do the hiding 

Attraction

life needs to be wanted

like the smooth grey concrete pier,

plywood impressed, stone-cold and 

lonely on the rain-slicked highway,

wants the bright chrome 

and painted steel 

front end, at 60 mph.

Coffee

Nothing is familiar upon examination

all is constantly disappearing

like overlapping shadows

without thickness or light,

and moves like fingernails

from out the fingertips;

white moons slow out from the flesh.

The weight of a cup

subtly in the hand

emptying.

Winter Walk

A consultation with the bare winter trees

they give good advice

the snow-covered fields aren't dumb either.

Three crows caw sharply 

and veer up the valley

adding their two cents.

Irises

Life's pieces

hurled like chunky glitter

by something like an explosion / only silent

from no moment of ignition / but constant

the remnants fly headlong

into an oblivion

yet 

there is an appearance of calm

almost normalcy

the flowers in the vase are still

without a hint of their wild flight.

Curtain

I look for the order in life

and am struck by the seeming disorder

I understand it is dry between the drops of rain

though I have never been there

I am only trying to discern the difference 

between the  window lit and the window dark.

Two

I woke up to you this morning 

thinking of you last night

for you are here even when you are not

brilliant sun at midnight

you are in my head

and your scent is on my hands

I know now

the losing is in the having

the dying is in the living

the two are always bound

intertwined like pain and its relief

or fog and the air

singular 

like love that never sleeps.

Late Fall

the presence of absence

a length no sleep will bear

of mind and window and 

a silence like slow bleeding.

a thickening, in the distance, of the air

a deepening of the dark

the green of the leafless tree

the rustle of no leaves, on a windless day

changing to evening 

without motion

witch wish

for Anne Sexton

I'm going out in those woods

the woods full of darkened tales

I'm looking for it.

I've got no pebbles, no crumbs, no idea

there is no coming back

I'm already haunted and being devoured

I'm looking for that witch

she can't hide in her witheredness

and scrawny, moley, ugly won't save her

she'll have hot chocolate, rich like soil

ready for me and I'll eat her house down

then I'll marry that witch

she'll wish for that oven

and we'll live miserably ever after.

Gertrude Stein

language like the sea

sentences rolling like waves to the beach

each wave contains every other wave

endless beginningless

each wave exactly the same

each wave entirely different

relentless life

refining meaning

breathing in

breathing out

making sand