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.

Quantum Wave Adjustment Kit

Being you is
Barefoot on broad
Piers at night rejoicing
Where beach fires
Compose wishes.
Being me is
Fifty-some-odd
Years ago noticing
How much pliers
Look like fishes.

Ponchielli, Religion Too

A steel spoon
Over an oak table,
Wine refracting
Lamplight red on
Two cookies in a
Blue glass bowl--
1952 recording,
Callas, "La
Gioconda" on the
Radio-- who knows
If I have a soul?

My Stunt Double, Part Two

She talks about friends
Our age --generations:
"They had children who
Had children who are
Absolutely crazy..."
Never have I heard the
Old Testament expressed
So succinctly, and,
Because it is
Is a book of Biblical
Proportions, I should
listen to her oftener.

Old Houses

How does one contain years,
In a barrel like rain,
Echoes in echoes?
In archives of the brain
Are endless selves
And more stored in
Footfalls from the floor,
Reverberating shelves,
Old doors swung open
And black water rimmed
In staves , hollow lapping
Sounds --cellar toads.
In codes of shadow,
Webby light and seasons
Stored in secrecy is
Resonance, frequencies
Of old houses, libraries,
Years that formed the
Years that formed us.
There are brighter things
To be, but none so
Thrilled in mystery.