Sonoma Mountain Rape

Tombstones stand numb against this July wind,
but we creep on. I pull oak leaves from my hair,
unaware of where we're headed, or the fire
burning in his loins. We can see the whole valley: land
of tended vineyards, California live oak, lazy black birds.
He points among trees and tombs, and keeps sticking
his fingers in the loops of my jeans. He's talking
about yesterday, the Fourth, fireworks, using dirty words,
and I see a target on my chest. He marks
his territory as I am spread-eagled under grave trees.
I am silent, staring past his shoulder, counting rows
of marble headstones, noticing the Little League park
full of kids, their laughter like the surf at Doran Beach.
My fingers dig the cemetery soil, taking root.
I grow into myself with each thrust. He notes
my cloudy eyes, continues anyway, filling the air with empty speeches.

What You Don't Know:

My fall
my ascent
my fall again.
How I felt my mind expand so much I lost myself.
The innumerable screams,
some for pain,
some for anger,
some for fear,
some for desperation.
My desire dry.
I didn't leave the house for days.
How many times I was a child
refusing guidance.
How many letters I have not written,
how many letters I have
hidden away like incriminating evidence.
You don't know
I can't sleep
I can't remember who I am.
You don't know
This is the first time in many years
I have thought myself worthy.
I have to grow accustomed to not being afraid.

(New Untitled)

When you ask me what I remember,
don't ask about the other girl
who shared my name
and his attention.
Don't ask about mangos,
and why he talks of them
falling on my head,
or staying up all night,
waiting for the phone to ring.
When you ask me what I remember,
don't ask me
whether it was really love,
or if any of our friends approved.
Don't ask about promises
or tears
or how how foolish I was.
Instead, ask me
if I allowed myself to breathe
when he put his arms around me,
if he let me shift gears
while he was driving,
if he laced his fingers with mine
between our seats
and held my gaze as long as he could
without swerving off the road.
When you ask me what I remember,
ask about our secret trip to his grandfather's
cabin on the Russian River,
how we had to break in
and played poker in the twilight.
Ask about the music we traded,
Beethoven for Hendrix,
how we each admit,
nearly a decade later,
we cannot listen
for fear of it hurting too much.

10/12/04

Giving Money Away

I look into myself,
Hover over the streets that
Channel bloodtraffic into the
Metropolis that is my heart.
I am busy,
Platelet people pulse through my urban veins.
But what is this scene here,
This street corner that moves in slow motion,
While the entire population
Slides past in a pounding stream?
What is it that allows
This time suspension,
That displays a minute me
Clearly disregarding the city?
What is it?
Perhaps it’s because I just said
a too quick goodbye to my parents
after their very first visit in four years;
Maybe it’s the bus they are on,
Soon to be absorbed in the flowing bloodtraffic.
Is it because I lost my green
Nepalese wool scarf, worth hundreds of dollars
Moments ago, that it is carried
Closer and closer to digestion?
Or is it because my Mom tried to give me
her burgundy scarf in a last attempt to connect?
Perhaps it’s because I turned her down.
Perhaps what it is is the sun
emerging from among the tall buildings,
my body temperature getting cooler.
Perhaps it’s the cold that makes me put my gloves on,
makes me notice the absence of my scarf more sharply.
Perhaps it’s because you know therapy is around the corner
Perhaps it’s the smell of the early morning street:
car exhaust, market fish down the street
Perhaps it’s because I have already given a street man a cigarette.

At any rate, I find myself giving money
to the old man I find on the very next corner.
I saw him from across the street as I lit my cigarette,
He looks like a miniature grandfather doll
I noted his small body,
His tweed hat,
The wool blazer with suede patches at the elbows,
His grimy SBUX cup, his sign that I didn’t read (I can guess what it says)
And I thought I was going to walk on by,
But suddenly I am reaching into my pocket,
It’s thoughtless,
It’s automatic,
I am grinning,
I look at the grimy cup,
I don’t want him to notice me,
I am smiling so big
Four quarters
I talk as if to a child:
Here you are sweetheart.
He speaks pleasantly in return,
His voice belonging to a man who has held his grandchildren on his knees,
And when he realizes how much I have given him
(a trifle really)
he exclaims
“Thank you very much ma’am!”
You are more than welcome.
It’s true.
I feel like I am flying down the street
My cigarette is delicious
I am thinking about coffee,
Reading about poetry.
I am thinking about my parents on the bus,
And Tim in boot camp,
And I am riding on the bus
And I am so tired
I look at his corner, and he is not there,
He has disappeared:
Is he eating breakfast,
Having a cup of coffee
In a new cup?
My eyes are heavy,
They are stinging.
Across the aisle is an older woman,
Immaculately dressed in black
With impossibly big hair
Her make-up is too shiny
I wonder,
Would she give money?
I doubt it.
Why am I so suspicious?
24-hours later I feel empty and ungenerous.

If a poem about a lost scarf could wrap the cold throat of this old man,
I could lose poems and scarves all over the city.

If a poem about coffee could ease the cold,
I would teach the people on the street to choose the right words.

If a poem about memory could re-unite families,
I would give poems to the grandparents that wonder the streets lonely on Christmas.

If a poem about pocket-change could be redeemed for a hot meal,
I could drop them in hats, hands, and cups.

If a poem about the morning could shine through my suspicions,
I would cover myself with them
And give them to everyone.

But poems do none of these things.
Therefore I fly with the feeling of giving,
Knowing sometimes that poems are enough.
Feel how easy it is to give,
Feel how easy it is to recognize your family in the streets.

Forewarnings of Christine Having a Seizure

No one is looking at her.
Empty beer bottles on a table.
Shoes off.
No one is looking at her.
My brother is in the other room.
My brother is holding her hand.
Either way he is not looking at her.
She ate too much.
She ate too little.
Hasn’t washed her hair.
Shoes are too big.
Drank a white chocolate mocha.
No one is looking at her.
Not enough cigarettes.
Now too many.
Fake I.D.
Very underage.
My brother asks her if she’s breathing…
How she’s feeling.
The surest sign:
Dinner with my family in Georgia,
Tim eating steak,
We are all talking,
And no one is looking at her.
When her laugh turns into an ‘innocent’ squeak,
And she begins to joke about her drinking problem,
It’s coming.
If my brother isn’t looking at her,
If he’s talking to someone else,
Christine’s heart will start to flutter.
It’s only because she loves him so much…

Forewarnings of an Argument

Silence.
Jaw muscles flexing
Stiff shoulders
Eyes narrowed
I’m distracted
Now there’s lots of traffic outside
And I can’t hear what you’re saying.
Your voice is loud,
Or perhaps too quiet,
Syllables swallowed in your speech.
The dog has gone outside.
I can’t sit still.
I need something to occupy my hands.
Avoid these topics at all costs:
Family
Money
Vacation
Work
Grocery shopping
Making the bed
Doing laundry
What’s for dinner?
House cleaning.
I have a headache—this is the surest sign.

Forewarnings of a Letter Arriving

I remember my mail key.
My hands/arms are full of other stuff.
I have to go to the bathroom.
I am overly anxious.
I am already composing a reply in my head.

Forewarnings of a Headache

I am not hungry.
I am famished.
The fridge is empty.
Cupboards too.
Everything tastes too salty.
My tongue is made of felt.
My skin is really dry.
There is nothing good on TV.
I want to sleep,
But it hurts to lie down.
My left eyeball is pulsing.
I have to get up early,
I have to be somewhere,
I have to enjoy myself or ELSE!
I feel like something is crawling out of my throat.

Sestina...kind of

The Quarter Scene
(An Attempt at a Sestina)

This restaurant. Tennessee Williams used to eat
Here. See his table in the front window? I gaze
Upon it, keep it in the corner of my eye as I drink
Coca-Cola, decide on jambalaya, chatter
With my family. Tim orders steak. We laugh,
It’s his usual choice, and we know he will cut
Into it with fervor, he will make his incision
Surgeon precise, guaranteeing he will devour
Each morsel with the same effort. A chuckle
From my mom and dad. I try not to stare
At “the table” or feel envy. Should I disrupt the babble
And reveal my thoughts? Or simply sip
My pop? What I really need is a quaff
Of something stronger, something liquid that’ll cleave
Through the fear I feel, allow me to parlay
My predicament. I watch their faces and chew
On my worries, my jaw moving without sound. Tim scrutinizes
His steak, deems it satisfactory. He snickers
The snicker of a boy unaware of his future, a guffaw
That hides his uneasiness. Mom and Dad drain
Their wine and I realize they keep gawking
At the waiter instead of at me, they can’t dissect
My intent from my face, and I ingest
Food now cold with apathy, filling myself with prattle.
I rage within, this noise, it just continues, this empty blather,
No on notices me, I am covered in their cackles
That make my stomach react more than the stuff I consume
All I can think of is some exotic liquored gulp
That will soothe my tongue, but my tongue has been severed,
It flops about uselessly, I can’t talk, I can only gape
At my family in disbelief, then turn my head and peek
At “the table”, a table of genius that supported smart oration,
That would never allow a family to be so dense and to mince
Their interaction into ridiculous posturing. I giggle
Despite myself, aware they laugh too. I guzzle
Their laughter like liquor and find I can dine.

As I finally sup, the nasty gash
Disappears as Tim chortles, orders one more swig
Of Coke, and instead of peering I can chat.

Hymnals

24-Hour Solo

A night alone beside a stream
With nothing but my wits,
A coffee can, a pocketknife,
And only three matchsticks.

I thought that I could build a hut,
A fire to keep me warm,
Instead I lay upon a rock,
And felt a chilling storm.



Sistine Chapel

The day in Rome was hot and clear
As Roman days can be.
The chapel air was crisp and cold,
The folks a churning sea.

These walls contain a sacred place,
The artist, touched by God,
And as I gazed, I felt a tear:
A critic’s subtle nod.



Beluga Whale

The water is a thrilling blue,
It’s almost like the sky,
And suddenly a massive thing,
A streak of white swims by.

My breath, it stops, my eyes are huge,
I really don’t know how
That in this world below the waves
There lives a swimming cow.



Rainy Beach #1

The beach is full of driftwood fresh,
A fog hangs in the air,
When wet the wood has such a sheen
And many colors fair.

Along the wall a row of rocks
In towers many lie,
I built them as a monument
To rain and sea and sky.



Rainy Beach #2

Not long ago the island stood
Against the cold gray rain,
The fog and clouds, they have returned,
The island’s gone again.

And when the sun breaks through the clouds
And burns so strong and bright,
The island with its foggy trees
Will once again delight.



Rainy Beach #3

I like to sit out in the rain,
And feel the drops come down,
A soothing touch upon my frame,
The mist becomes my crown.

The air is wet and so my face,
And yet I will not leave,
The rain it brings a calming grace,
A state beyond reprieve.

Night Sky

Songs tell you not to be afraid
But you don’t want to go
Outside when it’s dark
Because it’s just too, too big.
It goes on forever…
It’s one of the few things
That really is
As big as you think it is,
And this certainty brings
No pride at your accuracy.
The darkness above expands…
Could anything ever be that tall?
Why are you not flying upwards,
Why are you not falling off
The ground and lost in the expanse
Of the sky?

Mi Familia Costariccense

They lived in the hills above Alajuela
When they took me in.
This is our house,
Typical Costa Rican style,
Low to the ground,
Tin roof best for the constant rain,
Screened space between roof and walls
Best for the constant heat.
You can see we are only 6 degrees from the equator
By the coronet of sweat on our brows.
You would never know,
Looking at this photograph,
That I had been afraid
Of them when I first arrived:
Afraid that my tongue would forget how to curl
Around la lengua,
Or forget the flavor of the word español.
You can see how patient they are,
It shines in their eyes
Like the sun setting over la Isla Tortuga.
The children, Carolína y César,
Hold my hands
Because I had become una hermana,
A part of la familia.
Caro is small and thin,
Una flaca,
But see how large her head is?
Ella es muy intelligente,
And always has time for conversation.
César likes video games and fútbol,
And always laughs like a jackal at my accent.
Lourdes holds Naomy on her hip,
As if su hija had never been separated
From her by the process of birth.
Naomy’s easy smile
Is evidence that she is una milagro.
Her heart is bigger than anyone’s before her
Because su corazón swallowed death
And digested it like leche.
You will notice the lack of any distinguishing marks
On the outside wall of la casa.
Our address was peculiar:
We did not have a street name,
Or a house number.
Mail, or a ride home in a taxi,
Was directed thus:
Carrillos Altos,
Trés metros despúes del cemetário,
Un grande árbol en el frente:
High Streets,
Three meters after the cemetery,
Big tree in the front.
That’s the tree there to the right of us.
The cemetery is actually across the street.
Our house looks upon it with an open face.
The graves are above ground because of the excessive rain,
Just like the famous cemeteries in New Orleans
You can’t see it,
But three rows in, and four rows over,
That tomb there is protected by the same
Blue-flowered tile as my bathroom.
I stared long and hard at the grave,
Trying to connect grief with bathing.

Political Poem

HIROSHIMA NO PIKA
Story and illustrations by Toshi Maruki


I was eight years old.
Mama and I had returned
Home from the library,
The only place in the valley
That gave solace from the summer heat.
We had a heavy stack
Of picture books,
Twenty or more:
Enough to occupy
My quiet vacation moments.
Mama always chose
The most beautiful pictures
And interesting stories.
When we would curl up together,
Sometimes she would read,
Or maybe I would,
But there was magic
No matter whose voice.
I found hidden
In the middle of the pile
A slim book
With curious words
On the vivid crimson cover.
I can still remember
The peculiar title:
Hiroshima No Pika:
The Flash of Hiroshima.
Toshi Maruki, painting
With stunning shades,
Told the story of a little girl
Just my age, named Mii.
Her world began as luscious green,
But with a flare of radiance,
Became vivid reds,
Gloomy grays,
Scorched, naked flesh,
Noises unbearable and scary.
I couldn’t understand how light
Might be painful
Like Mii said it was.
My mother read to me,
And had to explain
The details that were left out.
Once I realized how many
Children became lanterns
Floating down Motoyasu River
Towards the Inland Sea,
Once I understood that light
Can sear off skin,
Make limbs disappear,
Teeth fall out,
Make shadows tangible shapes
On whatever walls remained,
I hid
The book under the couch,
Facedown,
For fear of stumbling on it,
Knocking its bright covers open
To some scarlet page
Overflowing with soot-
Covered children,
Cowering,
Burning too fast to cry.

ACROSTICS

SLEEP
Struggling against the night I
Lean into my pillow
Entreating my eyes to close, my
Ears to recede into my head
Please, I must sleep soon.


AWAKE
Although I’m tired, I
Wallow in sleeplessness
Allow thoughts to stretch
Keeping restfulness awake
Even as I begin to dream.


TIRED
Tonight the silence is loud
Interrupting my dreams
Refusing offered treats
Each tick-tock of the clock
Deafens my heart-beat.


DREAM
Doubt begins with darkness
Revealing viscera black with
Everything I fear
Anger echoes off emptiness
Muffling the voice of comfort.


CAN’T
Considering my
Ability, many
Negative, weak
Thoughts dominate.


POEM
Pretend your dreams
Open like flowers
Each new bud
Matches your soul.


SONG
Sing with lungs
Open and strong,
Notice your voice
Gives you meaning.


MUSIC
Make noise that gets
Under your
Skin, believe
Imagination will
Continue forever.


WRITE
Will the pen to
Roam across the page
Invite thoughts that
Teach little lessons
Everyone forgets.


IMAGINE
Inside the cavern
Mark your way
Annoy the darkness with
Gifts of laughter
Intended to illuminate
Night corners hiding bugs
Eating sorrow and fear.


GONE
Gorge memories with
Overt nostalgia
Never hold too tight
Even if you can.


ALONE
And when do you know you are
Lost? Is it the emptiness that
Ovals out from you chest
Nearly stopping your heart?
Each breath feels like the last.


SMILE
Sunflowers
Manage
Incredible
Laughter
Each day.


IDEA
Intersect boredom with
Dreams and
Envelope it inside yourAwakening mind

HAIKUS

Red flower in the
Rain stoops like an old woman
And glistens like fire.


The sea begins to
Resemble the turgid bliss
Of a laughing child.


Fog is merely the
Breath of the moon tired from
Circling the sky.


Fog is the fabric
Of the sky emerging from
Beneath the tall trees.


The tide leaves behind
Small things that clamor about
Looking for shelter.


Fountains splashing with
Joy brings a calm that fills each
Vein with bright longing.


The smell of donuts
Can awaken the laughing
Child deep within me.


Matt among the sheets
Turns and looks at me with eyes
As calm as the sea.

Escaping Depth

You are the best swimmer ever:
You have three blue ribbons,
One for backstroke, two for freestyle.
Before you walked, you swam,
And water is a comforting womb.
Keep your eyes open, even when they sting.
Will your lungs to breathe liquid.
You are a selkie, sleek and green,
Your skin like moss, your hair salty seaweed.
Don’t you know you belong down here,
Where the marine world is iridescent ease,
And the silence makes tones like siren’s songs?
So swim, swim slowly, softly,
Breathe out, watch the bubbles of your breath
Break the mirror above you.

Too deep, though, and the water grows cold,
Too dark to admire your seaweed curls
Streaming behind you like a scarf in wind.
Your charming greenness will fade
Into forgetful gray as you fall
Into darkness,
A color that stretches your skin
Until you can swim no more.
So far down and you lose control of the sea,
It holds you still though you kick and thrash:
A floundering fish hooked by failing lungs.
The water presses you as if you are an olive,
Trying to coax out the oil it knows you possess.
If you are to survive, better not swim like hell,
Better not try for another ribbon.
Better stay
While your heart still beats
Like an overripe tomato.

CANDYLAND RUN, BICYCLE RACE

Sonoma Valley, Summer 1990

Ducky and I hop on our bikes,
Pedaling like we're in the Tour de France.
We have to get to the creek, the one
That is nearly dry.
The sky is bright as chrome,
My handlebars hot.
Grape gum.
Smell of dry grass.
Baked ground crunching under our wheels.
The trail looks like the sound of parched corn
Rustling. Sara Elizabeth Shea and Duk Sook
Josephine Kuhry-Haeuser are racing through
Maxwell Regional Park.
We hate riding like this,
It's so unfeminine.
Sonoma Valley, the Valley of the Moon.
Is it shaped like the moon,
Or does it hold the moon?
It is filled to its trendy brim
With vineyards and tourists.
We are nerds trying to be cool,
Knowing if we stuff our tied shirts enough,
We'll wake up with breasts and be
Hella bitchin like dem hos
Who drink forties n' rock da beat.
At the creek, the jealous eyes of friendship flash
As we compare candy: warheads, ring pops, pixie stix,
Gum cigarettes, lemon drops. Ducky inhales the powdered
Sugar smoke, and now knows all about sex.
Sarie looks on and feels too young, too goody-goody,
Too afraid to admit she really doesn't want to play this game.
In a few more months Duk Sook will discover actual sex,
Become a woman at twelve, and disappear in a flurry
Of coke & booze, leaving Sara to wonder for ten years
What the foosh happened.
Ducky, holding the false butt,
Stands with nervous assurance,
Commanding silence.
For now, the riverbed is safe,
We are grown-up, we are twenty-five,
We do not know we are strangers.
Las chicas juegan como las mujeres,
Hablando sobre los novios y los pechos y
Cuando van a "hacerlo." Puedes hacerlo?
Las chicas buenas nunca hacen las cosas sucias.
The sun warns us of the late hour,
The shadows and the trees accuse.
We pedal fast, trying to win a race
Whose rules we do not yet fully know.

Breathing

Kate looks me straight in the eye,
Takes a breath,
Asks me if I love her.
I take a drag off my cigarette,
Breathe in the acrid smoke.
She is my best friend.

I remember a story she told me,
About the first time she knew
She loved me:
We were seven years old
On a Sassarini Elementary field trip
To the planetarium.
On the yellow bus
The vinyl seats chafe our legs.
We hold hands,
Giggling and cuddling
Like little girls do
And she is breathing
In my smell:
“Orange mint,”
She says,
Trying to breathe me in too.
She doesn’t tell me until we are sixteen.

My first cigarette was
Stolen from her mother’s purse.
We sat on the rotting rock wall
Down the street from my father’s law
Office, watching the red horses
Run through the dry, golden field.
The first breath was easy
Doesn’t make us gag.
We thought we breathed in adulthood,
Each insistent breath making us dizzy
Like little girls spinning
In circles in the backyard
Until they drop to their knees
Laughing.

We sat quietly at her dining
Room table during Passover,
Her family amazed the Catholic girl
Knows what Seder is.
I breathe in the smell
Of the matzo ball soup
We made earlier,
The bitter parsley,
The sweet minced apples,
The gifiltefish no one touches,
The dry, unleavened bread.
I am breathing in their Jewishness,
Reciting along with them,
Why is this night different
From all other nights?
Under my breath.
Later, the youngest children
Seek the hidden matzo cracker,
While Kate and I sneak
Outside for a smoke
Hold hands
Certain her parents don’t know.

Kate skipped school with me
To attend Good Friday Service,
The only day of the year
Without mass.
She crinkled her nose:
It’s only incense,
But she breathed deep
The sweet, spicy air.
I sat close,
My breath tickled her ear
As I whispered the Stations of the Cross.
She giggled.
To the Jews, Jesus was just
A really nice guy
But nobody important.
Our hands are held tight.
After church we smoke a whole pack of cigarettes.

We shared our first joint
With Chris and JB
At the creek behind the high school,
Thinking we should breathe
Like we are smoking cigarettes.
Soon we were cutting class
To “meet Mary Jane,”
Practicing our new technique:
Breathe deep,
Breathe deeper,
Hold your breath
For one…two…three…four…
Try not to choke
As we breathe thick
Smoke that tastes like grassy socks.
I find it hard to breathe
When stoned.

I woke up
In the middle of the flannel night,
Gasping for air,
My lungs taut and hurting.
I picked up the phone
Before it rang
Knowing she was crying:
Her folks found her cigarettes.

Kate played trombone,
I played flute.
I taught her piano,
She taught me guitar.
We were gonna start a band.
As I played Moonlight Sonata,
She sat next to me on the piano bench,
Pointing out that I held
My breath and breathed out
As if I was playing my flute.
She breathed with me
As I kept time in my lungs.

I breathe, breathe, breathe,
Have to sit down,
My hands tremble,
I can barely hold my cigarette.
Worst fight we ever had
It’s my fault
She went driving in the hills
Crying in the rain.
Here I am
Sitting and shaking
On Kate’s front porch
Racked with sobs
Afraid to see my best friend
Bruised, broken, bleeding.
I climb in bed beside her,
Can’t hold her bandaged hands.
Her face is swollen,
Her breathing gruff, labored
Like an old woman.
She’s not supposed to,
But I sneak her smokes
And trace the scars on her shaved skull,
Her mangled hands
Devastated at the thought
Of losing her.

Kate is my best friend
The first girl I’ve kissed
Taken ecstasy with.
We are sisters, I think,
We have a solid bond
Forged from purest gold.

“I don’t love you like that,”
I finally manage to breathe out,
Lighting another cigarette,
Watching her cherry cheeks ignite
Like burning paper.
There is nothing else to say.
She is breathing
As if taking
Her last breath.

Boat Builder's Chant

Which wood? I use cedar,
Each plank planed by hand.
My chiseled osprey eyes
Follow the flowing grains,
Hunting prey.
My arms are steady,
My wrists, tense attention.
I sing, I shave with rhythm.
My best blades know
The surging soul of the boat,
Whose clear curves come from
This steamed, yellow moon.
I’ve seen moonboats alter tides,
Felt my blood change
Like the swelling grain.

Bantu

A child whispering prayers.
The soughing of pine trees.


The distance of the moon.
The depth of the color blue.


A squirrel hiding an acorn.
The rustle of a turning page.


A girl brushing her hair.
The sheen of melted chocolate.


The sound of the sea in a shell.
The hush of a waiting audience.


The first bite of pie.
The crisp colors of fall.


The recognition of the horizon.
Tiny blue forget-me-nots in a green field.


The spines of a pineapple.
The gossip of teenage girls.

Bag

HERE IS a sliver of sunlight
Through blue curtains,
The crisp red skin of an apple,
Dust on forgotten on books.

Here is the rustle of a turning page,
The squeak of snow underfoot,
The dull tines of a fork.

Here are the spines of a pineapple,
The flesh of a nectarine,
The swish of a satin skirt.

Here is the soughing of pine trees,
Water filling a bathtub,
The cigar shop at dusk.

Here are dishes left in the sink,
The height of a redwood tree,
Toes tapping on tile.

Here is the sting of saltwater in the nose,
The searing beam of a lighthouse,
The tart taste of tangerine.

Here is a hissing teakettle,
The smell of baking bread,
The crack of thunder.

Here too is the smell of wild licorice,
The tough rind of a cantaloupe,
The sheen of melted chocolate.

So?

This bag is full,
Too heavy for my shoulders,
So I drag it behind me,
Collecting smells, sounds, scenes.
I always over pack,
But I cannot leave them behind.
These are things I see all the time,
These are things you need for dreams.

Organic Poems

At the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
When the wall is a wordless blank,
He stepped into the hailstorm
In a slice of concentration
Because the hail ricocheted off lemontrees.



The first warm day,
And by midafternoon
Something is calling to me.
The grass leans this way and that in discussion
The smell of the earth floods over the roads.
The wind’s an old man
Beginning to turn in the sun.
His ear is thick with fur and silence.
When swallows fly low, skimming the earth,
He’ll sit there pretending to read.



The moon in the window
So sure of its life
That it peacefully opens its wings.
The winter night curves round the legs of the trees
They are old lovers and know love starts gently.
You can feel the great joy of the trees
Flashing like storms in the picture window,
Like the sparks of redwing blackbirds,
As unexpected as a tulip.
The moon covers her eyes with a cloud.
How simple, how perfect it seems: the darkness.
Now there is nothing to see.
My life is a moon
In the frail blue branches
Of my veins
The blue, high altitude hallway of age.