No quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas, vacilante, extendido, tiritando– Neruda, and I even then I wondered how much of you I could know. Do you remember? We walked in the snow and talked about the edge of the universe, how contrary to conjecture it is expanding faster than ever. Four years. Is it chance, or could you predict this? A softer scientist I see both suns– giver of life and vengeful destroyer– and would accept either, now: no […]
It’s hard to fill up this much space, or loathsome to try. Another day of crisp blue sky, and that feeling of having been here before, or more like a premonition of a memory, a medley, vagueness and clarity, the patterns under trees, delineated shadows of leaves and the breeze, only one seen directly, the other inferred, and this is what preoccupies me–
In the end, does the ocean feel constrained? Or large lakes in their basins? Somehow it’s already late morning again it’s inevitable bounded stillness or bounded movement the margins have been set it doesn’t matter how you fill them.
We passed a black dog around the hairpin bend and going up it then descended as if to follow us, its owner having to call and call. How rapt those brown eyes, the wet nose on the scents about us. And how apt, as whatever this is that is trailing me these days, even up these trails, it is certainly dogged.
How much harder to write the open days– calm at dawn the morning a breeze, all windows open to prepare for later heat. The details are kind: Young maples have filled the silence between the pines with undulating green, you’d never guess just how the bank drops off– Down in the valley children scream in play, two girls wailing like teakettles, like birds of prey, and on the porch, lines of silk spark in succession — […]
Does this feel like water? Overflowing banks, a drought, both demonstrate a marked loss of control– Or, the ghost of steam, water giving up its form to take on another, but still remaining water– (maybe fire then is more apt– it isn’t, then it is, until it burns itself out.)
Whatever this is I’m attributing to the moon it’s probably due to wine or the hour, empty things exerting more pull, being more of a lure than those that are full— . It’s late, the small dog’s snore belying its size: or, what seemed large is small, or, what is small, seemed large.
Oh Keats it’s late and there’s no bright star no stars at all strange given the clear day earlier but life has its ways of imposing even lighter than air it still gets in the way I know that you know this how some nights can arrive like an unwelcome guest and with such limitless depth it keeps one awake just as easily as light would
In the distance the foghorn at the mouth of the Quillayute, unseen singing oh how the eyes deceive– like some mechanical dove or breath above a bottle, two hollow notes, one in constant falling. As the campfire dies smoke is held in close by the damp, the ocean lost in the whole of the night, but out there ships pass under a starless sky, and all that lies beyond them is tomorrow–
You’re making loaves of bread, now, same recipe, but each a different result, this one tasting like less but risen more. We drink in mild heat under the shade of the fruit trees, and wonder about that plant growing up the fence, with thumb-long thorns and translucent berries. It might be poisonous, you say, you’re going to pull it. A few plums, green, incipient, roll hard underfoot, not yet edible, and these, never to be. How sad, you say, it is, to be sad in Summer. The sky stays […]
OPTIONAL POETRY 