at the end of the dream
of an an april doorway
on a too warm
afternoon
i sleep
contented, tucked
and small inside
his palm
i fit his hatband,
feel his wavy hair
go round me
i'm a thought is all
that
matters
Zap
We're spending time here
as these sacks
of blood and guts. What difference
does it make
if we scarf up all we can, if we dance
a faster dance or leave our progeny
behind, or blink
like lights along the shoreline
when waves rise
high enough
to make them
disappear?
Life is
itself
the thing
mysterious, flowing through,
each to each: the crackled energy
we pass
like a baton each handheld
second, each smile
through dread
each ragged
Rubicon.
No Gravity
I know I've written poems about
squirrels
mostly
because I see them
when I go outside to smoke,
and what they're doing
usually
speaks to me.
But today I saw a squirrel
run across the mammoth limbs of one of four
pin oaks and silver maples, straight across
as though he saw a path, and then he'd
leap
onto the next tree, run that distance
and leap again, and run and what
a show.
I was curious as to why
he did this: what was
at the end
of the last tree
that he leapt to, but sure enough
when he got to the last, he turned
around and made it back
again. I stood smiling
watching
as the leaves shook
tree to tree. I knew he'd found a sport
that he thought thrilling. Risking death--
not to find nuts, but just to feel
that moment
when there is nothing
holding
you,
and for that blink of an eye you
fly, and for that instant,
nothing matters, nothing at all.
