I went to get a pen
which I normally have nearby,
and forgot by the time I found one
what I was to write.
(December 17, 2020)
continuous balm (101)
“but little thought”
—W. Wordsworth
today as I drive past sorghum fields
on my way to work I recall
a train in the Netherlands
decades ago moving through tulip fields
long strides of red and yellow
that stepped toward the horizon
(December 8, 2020)
ambient fear (100)
on the edge of a field a rabbit
sits still as a new wind stirs her fur
with the resonant dangers nearby
thus the day’s anxieties flow
through my skin as if I were a net
tossed into the ocean’s pulse to collect
the bits of how I am defined
by everyone but me
the deeper I drop the darker it becomes
and I am too tired all the time
to watch my last breath rise
in swirling bubbles like butterflies
lifting as one from a field of flowers
(December 6, 2020)
high mountain lake (99)
“where absent-minded prophets come to drown”
—Benjamin Peret
near the water’s edge he sat
as if waiting for something
momentous to occur
although the sun shimmered
brightly across the water
the mountain air was cold
for a moment he sensed someone
watching from the trees
he turned but nothing waited there
far away his life changed
as he watched the light
dance along the water’s surface
he swam out slowly
to the middle of the lake
and sank into the dark
(December 3, 2020)
chronic cough (98)
when mom died
we scattered her ashes
near the New Sweden cemetery
the chill wind swirled
like a witch’s spell
I inhaled then spat her out
today a cold wind dances
fall leaves down the street
I cough slightly then spit
(December 2, 2020)
you forget yourself (97)
“interwoven by the tragic spiders of the present”
—Ingeborg Bachman
I am not
who i was
nor who I will be
I am only
who I am
nothing
and no one
nothing more
than anyone
memory lies
laughing
like autumn leaves
feed
the ground
from which spring
emerges
knowing
only itself
how much self-denigration must occur (96)
if i gnaw out my fragile heart
canines slavering through flesh
the way wolves trapped
will desperately gnaw off
a leg to escape the hunter
will I be free with only a blood
limped trace dropped like roses
through freshly fallen snow
to mark my passage like stale crumbs
scattered across the frozen forest floor
a vaguely cogent sentence fragment
to parse a meaning into salvation
will I see in time the breach
open wide enough to squeeze
rock against chest between
tightly held breaths balanced
on a desperate fear that I have
lost the best bits of myself
(December 1, 2020)
Thanksgiving
When my mother died,
I did not get another—
one being
more than enough
for a lifetime.
(November 20, 2020)
parenthesis (95)
with an accent slightly different
than any dialect spoken here
a hole opens around us like an amoeba
and we are contained within
an other’s misinterpretation
as if we were not a part
of the conversation like a rock
is not a part of the river
which erases incrementally
shaping the rock as it surges past
oblivious like memory to the change
as each remembrance rises
to take dominion everywhere
if only for the moment it takes
to speak and then to unhear
all the patterns which brought us here
(November 19, 2020)
Going to Work During a Pandemic
The odds are I won’t;
Yet, someone will die today:
I let the bones roll.
(November 16, 2020)
