Leaf Fall

7811

 

Somewhere, not here

A field lies open,

Unframed, without

Mind, as if lost,

Waiting on ritual.

 

In Increments,

I have changed.

Each day dawns

Into itself;

There is no other.

 

Hear, and here

As well, I

Still seek

Her across

These echoes:

 

She followed

A fragile winter

Ice across a lake.

I am cold; the wood

Grown dark.

 

(October 30, 2018)

Ballistics

volleyball-serving

The young girl thinks

constantly of the proper

manner to serve

a volleyball true.

 

The smack-smack

of leather against

the polished wood floor

dominates and supersedes

 

the hard-lined proofs

of geometry; the arc

and vector, with

the slightest bump,

 

returns her to the game’s

concrete abstractions.

 

(September 19, 2018)

Only Traces Remain

P1020994

 

The sadness in the open rose

falls like petals to the path,

while you are somewhere else,

and I am nowhere near.

I hold on to the shreds

as a cicada’s husk

to a tree still clings

to a life not its own.

All maps are tattered

to an unstable memory–

which forms and reforms

until a landscape adheres.

Slowly I have fallen onto

a shapeless and empty road.

 

(September 15, 2018)

 

I Sit Beneath a Calder

default

–Chicago Art Institute, July 13

 

slow shapes turn about

each other as they turn

together through larger

fluidic constraints

 

the whole turns slower

partly to the left until

a  pause then moves

in a manner to the right

 

others speaking Japanese

move through the space pause

take a picture and move on

 

changing the room’s rhythm

which changes the slow shapes’

turn about each other and me

History’s Ground’s in the Dead

RoodeHoek21

 

Thus another pattern

is laid into a palimpsest,

like cities built on cities.

New iterations of schemata

entangle with the old.

Roots strangle roots

turning paths away

from any intention’s form.

 

The urgent surge searches,

like blind fingers flutter

across dead faces,

invoking ghosts to rise

darkly, to saturate the air

with earthy thickness.

 

(May 28, 2018)

Kintsugi

kinstugi+background

 

I write into the fissures

which slip across my façade

like ice cracking in early

spring rivers. Nothing’s fixed,

but changed.  A broken cup

is still broken. Like now,

after years of sadness

inscribed into my skin,

 

I’m still who I was at ten,

but changed. Each line I write,

each word, fits another bit

into the kaleidoscope’s mosaic.

Each moment becomes a whole,

before fracturing to reform again.

 

(May 22, 2018)