Tuesday, August 7, 2012


What is that river to me,
the one that comes and winks
like some tailless passion?
Even smoke remembers better that that.

What is the dry canyon to me,
that hot crevasse, as desiccated
as a bloodless lover's shut door.
Let the sun set: I'm not there.

The catkins feet are in the mud
where rival red-winged blackbirds
scold and defend.  What do I want with
their swampy trail?

I am digital, I am solar, an electric spark.


  1. I ABSOLUTELY LOVE this!!!!! WOW! It makes me want to.....write a poem! But I'm too tired. I love "let the sun set. I'm not there." Oh, me, too.

  2. i don't mind saying
    this is scary as hell.

    we are nothing without the natural world.


    You are not surprised at the force of the storm — you have seen it growing.
    The trees flee. Their flight
    sets the boulevards streaming. And you know: he whom they flee is the one
    you move toward. All your senses
    sing him, as you stand at the window

    The weeks stood still in summer.
    The trees’ blood rose. Now you feel it wants to sink back
    into the source of everything. You thought you could trust that power
    when you plucked the fruit;
    now it becomes a riddle again,
    and you again a stranger.

    Summer was like your house: you knew where each thing stood.
    Now you must go out into your heart as onto a vast plain. Now
    the immense loneliness begins.
    The days go numb, the wind
    sucks the world from your senses like withered

    Through the empty branches the sky remains. It is what you have.
    Be earth now, and evensong.
    Be the ground lying under that sky.
    Be modest now, like a thing
    ripened until it is real,
    so that he who began it all
    can feel you when he reaches for you.

    we are lost without our roots))))



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