Monody

Some things
Are impossible
To find on purpose.
We are composed
Of stunning antiquity
And antiparticles
Shot from the
End of time.
Only here, you,
Me, forever,
Do we seek
Causality.

Sweep Second Hand

I can plan the
Contents of an
Hour, know its
Coordinates by
Clock and calendar

And tell where
Rain fell alive
On dust where
Dust traveled in wind.

I can see where
Rain ends, but
What an hour is,
Or instant, I can't
Tell, and understand
Eternity as well.

New Morning

Time in a window,
Impossible eliminates
Itself, moonlit lawn,
Night, lives go where
Curtains close, where
Sounds pass, stars rise
And eyes shine in hedge.
An unending edge of
Dawn ignites the glass.
Probability saves
Your ass and that's
All right --just keep
Probable, night
After night.

Barometerhead

Migraine day.
I sit outside
And pull down
My hat--
Aspirin, espresso,
Meditation informed
By birdsong.
Nothing wrong
With that.

Working The Dream Exchange

I go down grassy
Dunes, with sling
Of tools, to the
Beach --littered
With leather straps,
Brass buckles,
Shin boots, hobbles--
Where souls rode in
On waves that rolled
Out of bridles,
Surcingles and slid
Back out to sea.
They are little use
To me, but I untangle,
Sort and store them
On sand for those
Who strike out,
Traces in hand,
From this shore
And need them more.

Garcia Bend

On this side of
The levee you
Can hear the
Heavy bray of
Barges --sound
Delivered to
A child whose
World enlarges
By the river.
The other side
Is still wild.

Short Term Prophecy

Day exasperating in
Every particular.
All its doubts so far
Nagging, deliberate.
Time pinched, dodgy,
Going late --we wake
Bewildered.
Things skid off,
Break --we learn
Wilderness.
An unkind day,
Nattering, unpunctual,
In no way
Flattering, functional
Or fit for memory.
Yet I'll remember
It, this silly day,
And like it anyway.