Posts Tagged ‘clarity’

We speak the way old friends speak—

knowing each other’s stories,

the nuances and undertones.

She always knows just what to ask,

just how to nudge me toward

quiet revelation. I don’t do my best

to hide. In fact, it is easy

to speak of my brokenness.

We pause in a field

where the forest has been felled

in an avalanche—

the slender white trunks are strewn

in a chaotic jumble—

but oh, how clear the view.

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One Bummer




dang, how the songbird

mutters sometimes, and slurs,

forgets how even the most

discordant song can be beautiful

when it’s sung clear

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scraping snow

off the car windshield—

so, too, these frozen thoughts

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moments of clarity

strung like pearls

with knots between them

never touching

but oh, the sweet weight

of wearing that necklace

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There is clarity in the three-hole punch,

the way it is made to receive the paper,

always the same every time.


How it punches the holes always

equidistant from each other. It never worries

it’s not doing its job good enough. Never


worries it isn’t worthy of the pages it meets.

There is clarity in the way it flexes beneath

the hand, how it does the one thing it was made


to do. And you, with your hand on the black

length of it, you with your thousands of choices

inside every moment, what is it that needs


your precision? Maybe you’re making it

too hard. Maybe it’s your turn to do

the one thing you were made to do.




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these rocks
that look
like stumb-
ling blocks
are cairns,
and I
have, with
such diligence,
been kicking
them from
my way—
oh foolish
who thought
that she
was lost.

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Here’s to whatever time
it takes to have the heart it takes
once more to get there.
—William Kloefkorn, in “Poetry”

How is it I did not see it before,
this doorway I am walking toward,
I know I passed this way.

I was perhaps distracted by leaves
or more likely lost in my own dreams
but now there’s no missing it.

I can be so serious. So literal. So dense.
I like my invitations to tell me where and when
and what I might expect.

But here it is. The door. Small and getting smaller.
And if I do walk through the door, will there be another?
The mind it wants to know.

But the soul, the soul is more like light
that leaks through whatever cracks it finds
not caring where it arrives.

It does not knock, would stream on through,
though the mind puts on its leaden shoes
and insists on having a map.

And oh god, here I am under the lintel—
perhaps its less door and more of a tunnel—
how long, how long will it take

and can I go back? Can we ever go back?
And why and why am I scared? I think
I know something, I think

too much. I think I should not think any more.
The facts: a woman. This moment. Sunflowers.
Lead shoes. Light. An open door.

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