[the way the clock]

August 20, 2010 § Leave a comment

The way the clock is always
in the same position
when you wake
however long you’ve slept.

The way your head is positioned:
you can only see the clock
and a window which is also a clock

orange and yellow for day
and then closed off by the black.

[shell of the ear]

August 20, 2010 § Leave a comment

The shell of the ear says See…

“But just to enjoy it,…” the morning Said.

And so I watch the green go through the day.


August 20, 2010 § Leave a comment

winter morning —
woken only by crows

various haiku I just found on the machine…

August 19, 2010 § 2 Comments

July sun on my neck —
grinding of the coffee roaster
fourth of July —
wasp explores the flag
July rain
drying my hair in it
the summer rain
pulling back the left sleeve of my shirt —
five minutes since last time

[bridge not ferry]

August 17, 2010 § Leave a comment

bridge not ferry

others have come before me,
others will come after me

if only even in thought

The happy horse of my life

August 17, 2010 § Leave a comment

This happy horse of my life that
I ride around in circles
circle like the face of a clock
clock-numbered all the way around this

This circle is the voice in the center
laying out our tasks for us
in time.
Never mind
the saddle and jodhpurs and boots and reins
the walks and trots and canters
and sun and dust and sweat.

This dappled gray horse of my life
whose shoulders unfurl to a rhythm
as I guide her into line behind the
buckskin horse and the bay horse as we
all form a circle at the direction
of the voice in the center
at a walk and a trot and a canter

circling the dust, shadows changing
as we changed hands and turned
serpentines through the center of the circle
the voice silent for once as I led the way.

[me ashore]

August 17, 2010 § Leave a comment

The wave washed me ashore, my legs heavy with sleep.

The wave — the wave, not water but sleep.

I don’t move, so as not to throw off the last bits of it, until I remember the pencil within reach.

And fall back down.


August 17, 2010 § Leave a comment

Calendars run too slow to wear on your wrist

You’d have to hold too still

Don’t move your arm or the sun won’t fall just right, and it has to —

The world will be disjointed if you move, the page not wide enough to hold what it must —

The page flips every thirty midnights, and fans your wrist as you walk by.

Sitting with my back to the snow

August 17, 2010 § 2 Comments

Sitting with my back to the snow which starts at the
door to this table and this bench next to the altar that holds
a dish with money from Costa Rica and India in it
and from here, with a large rock holding it all down next to the
candle next to the
window next to the
door to the snow and the
footprints filling one by
one back to you
and now they are smooth and white.

[the night kitchen]

August 17, 2010 § Leave a comment

entering the night kitchen
the scent of basil
before the light goes on

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