in their conscious longevity,
stamped our passports
and immigration documents
long before our legacy of amnesia
and we came to realize
that everything, including our sense of planetary privilege,
has been a sham, a lost man’s desperate invention,
and while some wept and wondered, and wandered with nowhere to go,
others kept right on,
working their jaws religiously,
in chewing stick after stick of savior chewing gum,
which apparently becomes the stickiest stuff on earth
when engaging contact with foreign matters,
and other things true
to the calling of home.
weighing on the snow-skinned branch,
caws with dark religious insistence,
like a sailor homesick for love,
or its remaindered sibling.
There is an unremitting hoarseness
that disguises its calling
in still feathers
and winter’s light.
is not a matter of chance,
or waiting, or a magic spell
that demands bated breath and fretted suspension—
it is the fact that you pick up a pen,
your fingers growing warm and intimate with its weight and feel,
the slow almost dumb beautiful realization that you,
or someone like you is holding a pen, an instrument aloft
and hovering above a blank page, and some kind of strange ceremony,
half-marriage, half-divorce, is about to take place,
in which you, or someone like you, as a form of expression,
is both the effect and the cause.
The pen, through good times and hard, accounts for dreaming,
and inspiration runs through your fingers like an unschooled course on being.
the privilege of air
inside the ceremony of lungs
and chance, where you,
as an honored guest,
get to ripen and breathe
the adventure of your name
into a free-range universe.
Did I look down,
or peer within
when I saw the golden grass
waving like liquid tendrils of light?
At the soft, rounded edge of dream,
a beckoning to fall, to endear charm
to the fool’s play calling your truest name
It is the caste
in which words,
to serve a poem’s
to know your longing
as an open source.
It happens fast,
the first trembling chapter
of an impending sneeze,
the half-slitted stutter
of a lid’s ambition to wink–
We are, timewise,
less than these things
in the gaugeless cosmic scheme.
And yet beyond these words,
and the person who wrote them
(already he is dead
there is love, as a force
and not a shove,
which is not bound to a clock
or the stiff cult of metaphor,
and in the blink of a sneeze,
in the bated stutter of a nostril,
you are there,
breath knowing pure longing
as itself, in a marveled continuum
for migrant souls.
A red balloon
says so much about the sky,
and the weightless wonder of children,
when desire, bated aloft by the sun,
gives free-spirited chase
to the play of light
on basking reams
of nimbus and lore.