More variable rain impulsive preordained in the way that a song is . and trust is not wholly incompatible with doubt or why such relief as a progression plays out? . these days it’s too hard inside to hear above the deafening silence . but out here the chord is always an open one and moving to resolve
This old dog gets lost inside the house now sticks her head into doors that she can’t place– is this the bathroom or is it the lake? And I can’t tell from her sweet face if she’s figured it out or forgotten what she came for– and how do I stop her world from receding when the hard truth is that it’s not the world that is leaving?
Arch, I’d like to go see the Arch, trenchant, I’d like to go see the sea– Melville I know about Novembers of the soul, and Decembers, Januarys, and Februarys– There’s something about the Pacific that tempers a temper, dulls a sharp tongue, I don’t know why I get like I do but call me Ishmael it’s not unprecedented– just give me a shore and a ship and a star to sail by and a home […]
We all came through the night unscathed to the first day of Spring slow to arrive no different than the last day a dead sky hesitant rain I’m not so gullible as to try and balance eggs and brooms and the like but must admit I feel a sort of stasis as in something surely is holding us in place
Inexorable tides something like inevitable grief that will arrive in what– a day, days, weeks? Out on the coast we used to climb the sea stacks and grassy headland paths to watch the surf chew up the shore and anything else that remained below not safely nested up in barnacles and pines and is it wrong now to cooly observe a breaking from some distance– metaphorically as I couldn’t get time off and don’t want […]
This another sort of entrapment– the weight of ought and should even now even here waking so late to a colorless sky and still-bare branches backlit and immobile I went to stake the peas with sticks to try to gather and balance things now well beyond reason now well past care even the hermit juncos stopping to observe my shoddy weaving– silence and mania in this setting of a rescinded spring of days that can’t […]
suivre l’onde amère words from a lifetime ago what dredged them to the surface if not this night’s precipitous drop . what precipitated it who can say a tide it changes anything might lurk deep waters, etc., au fil de l’eau il n’y ait plus rien ( à perdre) . the point being one cannot actually follow a wave from shore (at least) it breaks– any return is subtextual e.g. subtly below the water’s surface […]
Maybe the first take of a place is the most correct one the sweet relief of green a shock of it! under open blue skies elaborately scalloped clouds nosy chickens familiar rivers what a long long long winter it had been the air no lighter than it was across the channel but I was immeasurably so happy even
(2) Wan sunrise on the frills of fledgling pea vines a red hue betrays these sprouts as beets and here the dumb exuberance of the radishes yes I have grown cold please accept these as my excuse
Herald to a gaudy spring the potted Narcissus outside the door sprouts from a pool of standing water strange how a myth persists but nothing truly self-absorbed would share so freely unattributably and intangibly its scent so maybe that’s the Hyacinth these flowery Greeks easy to confuse all springing up from the blood of gods and lovers
OPTIONAL POETRY 