4.

2poemart_4.jpgHaving this moment
been bitten
by time,
ratsnest temerity of the minute, that notorious anklebiter –
a small tooth-marked bit of heart
removed for ingestion
by history, the necessity of eating
found even in the clock,
the call of a ticking,
the crawl of a tocking,
time articulating, animated
by my blood.

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3.

2poemart_3.jpgHaving this moment danced
on the head of this moment, I don
wings for washing dishes, the turn
of the doorknob
under a soapy rag, two-ply toilet paper
and the wind in a leftover laundry –
love.

2.

1poemart_2.jpgHaving this moment repeated
the same seven repetitions of replete redundancy
— how
— because
— but
— if
— should
— want
— okay

I carry on.

1.

2PoemArt_1Having this moment ascended
the rungs of the dish rack, focusing
intently on disintentment
and the moderate cleanliness
of a white travel mug, one can
assume a carpet-colored cloak
of serenity, on a sofa, in the exhale of a box fan
perpetual
and costly,
seven tabs in the browser window
and a timer counting down in its head, silently
so I needn’t attend the hours –
though they attend me.

Full

a stillness I follow, unspeaking
the car a gray shadow, hardly interrupts
emptiness
shines
the dark road furled
through rain-drift pines

silence-hollowed curve
empties into
silence
hollowed
curve

rain folds
behind
and
rolls
before

‘til trees step back
in deference
to bright sky –

road, shadow, I
into negative space
once workmen blasted back
from dark boulders

an entryway of emptiness

to Sly Creek dam, a sweep
of white cement
smooth shouldered
collaring

emerald edges of winter-held
reservoir, high in her rust banks
that serge the forest,

reflecting rain
rain
rain

all empty
of humans
and full

of being

Song to a Large Household Sponge

carry this burden so
incautiously,

troops departing
unceremoniously
(without chutes)

and catching silver sunlight
in their blissful bodies,

which tend the parched dirt
in their descent

and make things grow

Bones displayed for tourists,
cabled to the ground, in cypress shadows

Named

PoemArtFeathers.jpg
Over mystery
I have no power
no tools wherewith to tune
its turn, dry it, save it, alphabetize it
except for language, which saves me
every time, allotting letters
to sequence, according to ingrained patterns
in my brain, to translate it a name:
m-y-s-t-e-r-y

Now I know you, name you, place you
after “myrtle” and before “mythical” –

this jewel just moments before
known only by
the pattern of morning light through ivy
(which intends to rule the world) and shadow
on a bedsheet sunshade
hovering over greystone patio
and sigh of a sleepy sunsoaking canine
curled up on a polka-dot rug.

All these knowing things glow, all drift
in late spring breezes, all play the dance
that moves us on
through outer space –
around, around
around

running circles that mimic
but do not match the face of a clock,
whose numbers I have tried to assign
to time, which I have authorized to mathematize
all mystery, but which

escapes, departing the dictionary
with barely a flicker
as the bay leaves in the sudden absence
of a hummingbird.

Whale Bones

Bones displayed for tourists,
cabled to the ground,          in cypress shadows
beside the whaler’s hut museum –

a Fin, a Humpback, Grays –
weathered, smoke-white, rocky

but when I run my hand
around the rim of corridor
where marrow once lived
there comes small lightning
palm
to soul,

sensation no stone gives –

life, the body held up
and moving, the architecture
now ossified
of creature, classifiable,
inhabitant
of this habitat,
home.

Eight-foot ribs, vertebrae
as wide as me
and again and again a waist-high expanse
of scapula sings to my skin
sings
sings

while I fall behind practical Saturday morning companions,
while I fall sheepish but held
by rough cold silk electric

by mystery beneath my warm
migrating palm

A Medical Description of Increased Stress

2PoemArt_MedicalDescription.jpg

Run
peddle the air
hawk it, even
spend it hard, departing
each footfall as fast
as your heart will drive you,
odometer dropping numbers
faster than the clock
drops
seconds
and you find yourself
where you started, or else nowhere,
selling air to the atmosphere

which laughs.

Point Arena

The sky, for three days empty, began to gather clouds from around the world ― a remarkable collection, and expertly lit. The sun was itself accentuated and concentrated by the contrast, and shot spectacular light on the world, wrapping around the gleaming white cylinder of the lighthouse, blooming again and again against dark ocean in the blown spray off cresting waves, and warming shining chins of seals as their round faces emerged from waves. Just south of the point, whales turned near the surface, waving dark arms. We watched them for a long time, while behind us more and more visitors climbed the sunwarmed lighthouse to pretend that they were Frensel lenses, turning green beauties, hailing sailors 21 miles out, past the corrugated edge of sea.

12NewYearsCoast