seeing through
the winter trees

an empty snow
day today
and nothing to say

I meet a wandering monk yesterday
here in the middle of Kentucky
he was crazy in love
and telling everyone

dirty dog paws
on my pillow again
soiling my dreams

I didn’t write yesterday (with pencil)
it was a lost day
hollow and conventional

crazy armed tree
impossibly long limbs
meandering

silence is the only rigour
that brightens
these words

an October elm tree
glowing from its inside

born
once or twice a week
again

death will be
the vertical lines
in an aurora borealis

trying to tread
the boundary

its why late nineteenth century paintings
are so good

weak ghouls
they flee
so easily

mornings
the fresh darkness
at my kitchen table

silence sinks deep
stitching organs strong

my toes are cold
this Sunday morning
hot tea in hand

the clouds
are always moving
my persistence

I must be still
if the cream is to collect
in my head

this is exactly what I need
and yet I wish and dream

to death
again

all I have is my response
and even this is tainted
by a million lifetimes
of prejudice

quiet my mind
grow my heart

I slip into selfishness
again to remember
my forgetfulness

early fall chill
just a few walkers
in the dark morning

illness, heartache
and poverty
the guru’s blessings

may long dreams and soft skin permeate