The Morning Dew

In pride my bare feet crushed the dew

of the morning field, before life taught me


I was as the dew, nothing more than mist

that had cooled into a tiny reflective globe


I apologize for who I used to be, fleeting

marauder of what I failed to understand


Remorse is not the end of wisdom, but yet

it seems a beginning, as I walk mornings


That I never imagined, my feet more worn

and yet more tender as I’m beside the point

Wedding Party

late stages of multiple sclerosis


we lift the wheelchair

up over the stone entry steps

ruined queen still on her throne


we are her wheelchair bearers

who will soon be her pall bearers


inside the celebration goes on

full of sound…


does she open even an eye,

mother of the bride…?

Ambiguous Privacy

Ambiguous privacy of  poem


What no one knows is all mine


It shines in my quiet night


It stars in my inside sky


Song is made well before song


It pours out found and lost

The Hordes

I understand very little

but the hordes coming

behind me know so much


I admire them and fear them

perhaps a few have kinship to me

are baffled as I was, as I am


I count myself fortunate

to see the light that I see,

to see by my own lights


The illusion of ownership

barely lingers in me, I belong

to my body, not the reverse


There is tenderness for what

is and can be easily abolished.

The dark of violence frightens me


The hordes coming behind me

know so much, but do not yet

know how little it is, we are

One Note

In the night he played the organ of sorrows

whose vast pipes spanned continents

and whose music was time, the sea

in which he swam and dissolved

to become a wail sounding the deep

where beginning and end are one note


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