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Chromosome Damage (work in progress, part 3)

(41)

The sideways shift and snip

Clatters across the sand.

It’s easier to move out of the way—

Trouble passes, one remains

To proceed with plodding step

Along one’s path.

(3)

Time’s slow arc

(34)

All the variables led here

As inevitable as this morning’s

Sun striking the sycamore’s white

Bark; no god laughs as our choices.

(14)

A left, a right, a yes, a no:

Life’s crushed to binary.

(16)

I close an eye

To see the obvious

Connection: the moment.

(15)

I stumble step across a bridge

Swinging above a crevasse.

(21)

No saints guide us home,

Nor care how far we fall.

The emptiness opens

Like an aura.

(43)

This morning everyone sleeps in

As fog drifts between the trees

Near the creek and the gray sky.

The last brown leaf has fallen

From the sycamore; the solstice

Passed under a full moon.

(30)

Dusk and dawn, progressive

And simultaneous, flow through

The landscape. Yet, we think

Our futile actions have consequence.

(19)

Like you,

Light bends

Along each wave’s edge

Into separate

And singular parts.

Featured

Weeks Before Winter Solstice

W

                                      “and I am

out with hanterns, looking for myself”

                        –Emily Dickinson

Despite the lights in the house,

The darkness penetrates.

It assumes positions in corners,

Presumptuous in its domain.

Like lions pace a cage’s confines,

I am lost in loops of thought

Looking for a set of keys

Which will let me inside.

Yet, there is no rest within

Nor without which can comfort

Enough to bring a closure;

Locked in my obsessions,

I worry each item in turn,

Tangled like tumblers at a fair.

(November 26, 2018)

Improvisation

wile-e-coyote

 

 

at best—

a bird flits

across the yard

with a divine grace

from bush to tree top

as if each wing-beat,

dip, and glide

were planned

 

more likely— I wing

each moment; in chaos

I flail, arms akimbo—

a cartoon character

only cognizant as I fall

slowly through clouds

into a soft puff of dust

that pocks the ground

 

(October 4,2018)

the constant

SAINTS SERGIUS AND BACCHUS. Byzantine icon of Saint Sergius and Saint Bacchus

as if an aura buzzed

a neon glow along an edge

of a byzantine saint

a low level dread burns

on the periphery of his days

like a star verging on collapse

everything everywhere constantly

distracts toward simple

chaos toward tangents

askew to well ordered

paths desired in his constant

scrabble for affirmation

instead of beatific joy

in the exploding universe