Poems

Dusk singing —
I fall asleep dancing
with fireflies.

Find a quiet room.

You may find it wherever there is a quiet room.
In a house. In your mind. In an apartment.

Sit. In a chair. On the floor.

Try not to move with the room.

It will be imperceptible at first,
the impenetrable stillness.

Windows, if you have them, will distract you.

Outside, the motion of things —
it overlies a seeming. A vast, looming shadow.

Doors will tell you their lies.
Your heart will move through the doors and into the world.

The ground you imagine beneath you
is not the ground beneath you now.

Bring your heart back into the room.

You will feel the ground beneath you.

Try not to breathe with the room.

Remember where you are.

Find the room again. Find yourself in it.

Try not to move with the room.

It will be easy. It will take only a little effort.

What you know will not be what you feel.

What you feel will be what you feel.

Find something else in the room.
A lamp. A bookcase. A crumb.

Find yourself in relation.

Try now to move with the room,
outside the motion of things.

Windows will not distract you.

It will be imperceptible at first,
the force of acceleration.

You will not feel the ground beneath you.

Your heart will move through the door and out of the world.

The world you imagine beneath you
is not the world beneath you now.

Find a quiet place. You may find it
wherever there is a quiet place.

It will be imperceptible at first,
the impenetrable stillness.

Remember where you are,
outside the motion of things.

What you feel will be what you feel.

A vast, looming shadow.

Find yourself in relation.

It will be imperceptible at first,
the force of the realization.

Remember where you are.

Find the room again. A lamp. A bookcase. A crumb.
Find yourself in it.

Your heart will move through the door and into the room.

The ground you imagine beneath you
is the ground beneath you now.

Remember where you were.

You will feel the ground beneath you.

What you feel will be what you feel.

What you know will be what you know.

The future’s present surfeit of direction
forgets the present’s perfect imperfection.

O foam! Do you hear
The beat of water

We become?
I comb the beach —

The waves are fast.
The foam floats out of reach.

I seek what lasts.
I hear the ocean drum.

How rare, the swell
That bears a shell.

These mild winters catch a cold
sometimes, and the breathing wet air
acquires a thick rasp.

Wind rattles the window. In the garden
the sparse apple tree is beat
by a stalwart green orange.

No hummingbirds today, I guess.
Crows and seagulls. A running wisp
of cloud that will twist clear.

Up in the blue North, waiting,
the side of the world could soon burst
into volcanic winter. Yet

the hummingbirds come, as if to catch
whatever warm thread of life
is loosened by the wind.

I wasn’t expecting that. The world
regards no guess with its calm surprises.
I am wrong often enough.