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Archive for July, 2013

more splash than silver
the sea’s surface leaps up
to the nightless night
so much hunger
rising

*

no stars, no moon
and still
no darkness—
here is a good place
to learn about longing

*

dark rye bread,
dark rye bread, hard boiled
egg and dark
rye bread dark
rye bread

*

swan in the inlet,
swan beside the fallen tree—
every swan
a swan
worth pausing for

*

running around
the same lake twice—
nothing else the same

*

alone outside
on a morning swing, the world
gets big again

*

top of the roller
coaster my reluctance
gapes at the bottom

*

in the square
a man squeezes his accordion
an old world tune
though I am still I feel
every cell waltzing

*

concourse Z
the young girl hides in the maze
from passport control
the hard silence falls
I do not keep the peace

*

driving under the sea
I try to think of anything but
driving under the sea

*

not expecting
the sweetness of the strawberry
the strawberry
tastes ten thousand times
sweeter

*

after weeks
without seeing stars I learn
to wish on the whole sky

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Two Slips

all that breathing
and not once today did I think
to thank a tree

*

that woman
in the mirror
I think she looks familiar

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Two Almosts

rain falls
like shooting stars, one drop
to wish on

*

sure it’s shiny
but don’t get close enough to sniff—
barracuda flower

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Daily Round

Slowly
the
mower
the
woman
behind
it
and
slower
the
hoer
the
woman
who
holds
it
and
near
still
the
holder
of
he
who
is crying
and
nearer
his
whisper
her
shudder
his
why-
ing.

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Identity

That’s what they do,
he said. They get your birthday
with your name and then
they steal your identity.
Thank god they did not
print my birthday in the paper,
he says, pointing to the long list
of birthdays in the bottom right
corner of the local newspaper. We
are sitting on the bench
in front of Mary’s Store.
There is no one named Mary
who works here anymore.
Now, he says, I don’t have
a PO box, don’t have a driver’s license,
I paid to have them take me
off the voter registration list,
twenty bucks, did you know that,
he says, and now I fell off the radar of the paper.

I want to wish him happy birthday,
but he is too busy telling me
he is no one and how the person
who steals his name will be the one
with a driver’s license and passport
and PO Box to prove it.
He’ll have it all with my name,
he says, his arms waving wildly,
the injustice of it all. He shouts,
They’ll deport me! Not the other guy!

Part of me envies him his disappearance.
Part of me still longs to wish him
a happy birthday once he pauses long enough
for me to speak.
And part of me is already escaping
into the dry air of July, perhaps
laughing at the one who thinks
her life is hers.

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Where We Are


The path is the last impediment to the path.
—Lama Dzongsar Khyentse Rinpoche

The path had not ended.
We had not arrived
anywhere except in a stand

of spruce where a new path
sprung to the left, and another
narrower path led to the right.

The main path curved up and
around the corner. I did not want
to turn around. I wanted to

arrive somewhere—to have
a marker of some kind. A view,
perhaps, or a giant stone.

Or a field of pink Indian paintbrush.
As it was, we turned back down
at the spruce glade where the paths

criss crossed. We all know we can never go back.
But this path gave the impression
that all was the same, that nothing

had changed between the time we
hiked up and the time we chose
to hike back down. But everything

had changed in the way that everything
does. And we didn’t notice it.
As we seldom do.

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The horoscope says

that changes will come thick
and fast over the next few days,
but not to worry, they are
the kinds of changes
I enjoy. I wonder
what that might mean.
That my drought-wilted
garden flowers will
leap up to green new life?
That I will no longer think it sounds good
to devour the whole bag of chips?
That people all around the world
will drop their weapons, their grudges,
their vendettas, their curses, their fists?
That I will stop dreaming impossible dreams
like this?

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Four Humblings

I hand you the torch
to burn down these inner walls
then hide the match

*

dreaming of being
a poet writing
of dreaming

*

at the end
of the sentence a period—
life goes on

*

student of rain—
learning the joy
of thirst

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Here in the silence between
our eyes I hear the rain that is not
falling.

Inside silence there is a deeper
silence.

We might rush to its edge, or tiptoe, and always
the silence has grown beyond
itself.

There are no words here worth
saying. We say them anyway
for the pleasure of slipping
into the space between.

Somewhere a man
is shouting to his friend.

Somewhere a car is grating
into gear.

Somewhere a bird is moved to sing
a one-note song again and again,
a daylong ellipses …

and everywhere this invitation
to look into the other
and know ourselves
as listening.

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