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
