Old Elm At Sheppard Pratt, 1998
This elm that was in spring
both vase and flowers,
is in November, bare,
a thing alone of ink and air.
I Work Away From Where I Am
I work thousands of miles away from where I am,
down the slippery staircase of centuries,
flying in the face of the future, revolving backwards
to where the pinhole of mind at once admits and emits light,
a photo finish that begins a trance with its own exit.
A Place No Words Can Fill
I have a poverty
I can bank on
a field no plough can till
a place no words can fill
A Dark Bird
A dark bird is singing
at the edge of emptiness.
A light bird is singing
at the edge of emptiness.
I’m looking for a third word
at the edge of emptiness.
A Blank Sheet Of Paper
The light of this early morning
comes in the window on a slant
and makes a blank sheet of paper
on the bare wood of the step
I cross on my way to waking.
I reach for a pen that’s only air.
How will I write today and what
will be left when it’s gone away?
A Book That’s Never Done Reading
I am
in shapes of light
framed in shadows,
pages in my mind,
a book that’s never
done reading
1996
Forgotten Bed
Escaped from sleep,
the night slips away
in whispers while I sit
and listen, like a gambler
at a roulette wheel,
hypnotized by the spin,
having forgotten the bet.
1995
Flowing
I took my own life
in my own two hands
and walked down the path
from house to river
where I uncupped them.
1996
Early September Evening, 2001
I lie down and float
on a bed of cicada song
If Stone Could Speak
if stone could speak,
it would pronounce mystic names
in tongues of flame,
burning our ears to ash
we should be grateful
to the stones for their silence,
because it makes a place
for our small voices.