Contrary
though light is evidence,
bountiful.
and spring arousal
shivers bough
and flesh alike…
my human season
contradicts the budding,
haste of grass.
panoply of birds…
the gathering separates me,
the welcome countermands…
for newness is a party to the grave,
what’s found here
is lost elsewhere…
such stratagems
of earth and air…
the future begins,
so the past won’t have to.

sun, at last,
showing a little of
that vaporous
red and orange
late October originality,
shadows cut with scissors,
pale light and even paler glitter.
an all-star cast of insect noises,
wind picking up
so trees can toss their tops off –

an emptiness in the heart won’t do –

your absence has these better ways
of explaining itself

Sometimes it sounds like
barn doors opening,
lots of ancient wood
and rusty iron
creaking and cracking.
Other times,
it’s a shrill northeasterly wind,
rattling the windows of my lungs.
Then there’s that panting
of the overheated dog,
the rapid wheeze
of an accordion playing polka.
My breath is a percussion instrument.
It’s all the woodwinds
and occasionally, the strings.
Sometimes, on the good days,
I hear nothing at all.
Ah the silence of it.
That’s a sound too.

Barely two feet long, its fur dries
in Hawaiian sun to a rich silken ebony.
Blue-black eyes hide behind
rings of warm white sand.
Its mother rolls over on her side,
uncovering a glaucous belly,
four budding nipples.
The pup twists onto its back to nurse,
a gentle sucking, soft as waves
retreating from the beach.
Then, it folds up under its mother’s chin
like a beard, crosses its flippers
across its chest, and sleeps
the sleep of love and safety.

The tide ebbs
but all else flows.

Many years ago — born —
dairy country —
grandparents all dead —
mother, youngest of thirteen,
more cousins than cows —
born — same moment
when a drop of rain fell,
two hands squeezed a bovine teat,
a mango toppled from a tree —
a cool ocean breeze —
the smell of ginger from the nearby factory —
all grandparents in the ground —
none to pat the baby’s head,
none to get drunk in the celebration,
slip and stumble on the stairs —
even my father, a few months to live —
what’s the story? life’s that short, that cheap? —
I burst into consciousness,
blood and flesh and eyes and
unfolding tiny crumpled fingers
I could live forever at this rate —
but a generation’s already boxed
and on its way to being forgotten —
the next prepares to follow —
no guarantees, just breath
and the sound of my own voice screaming —
it has to do —
sometimes it’s enough

Train whistle draws its inspiration
from the trill of endless insects
Summer night accordion, tin pipe,
flute enough to float the blood
from heart to head and back again.

The heat is the most and the crickets are least,
and through it all, the locomotive,
stretched taut silver, strains against steel rail
and contour and knock-kneed sound,
to crush another mile beneath its wheels.

From darkening berth, the night’s forensic,
a shrillness here, a click-clack there,
evidence gathered to implicate field and sleeper
in the distance gained.

Farmers wave. Children pedal.
Russet hills just are
in the way that small towns try to be.

I climb to the top of the high tower,
peer down at the bucket of water below.
Yes, I could dive, down, down, down,
into those few inches of liquid and survive.
But the daredevil adventure
doesn’t say enough about me,
so I descend the ladder
to the disappointed sneer of crowds.
Same with the thin wire stretched between skyscrapers.
Oh I could walk across it all right,
on one leg if I had to.
And riding a barrel over the falls…
as easy as driving to the corner shop for bread.
Jump canyons on my motor-cycle…
not a problem.
Dive through fiery hoops…
with my eyes closed.
But I’m out to white water raft
down a raging river of blood.
I long to spelunk in the intestine,
scale the wall of guts.
And parachute into a brain sure,
while hacking at the feasting thoughts.
The world around me is dangerous up to a point
but I stare long in a mirror,
eye-ball to eye-ball with a face
whose risks are infinitely greater.
I run the gauntlet in there
with no guarantee of my survival.
The heart of spears, the soul of swords…
and weary flesh to accommodate
these wounds where I live.

Passion Contents