On Not Saying Goodbye
Companionable silence
breeze through the window
far away, the road
Companionable silence
breeze through the window
far away, the road
Does the insect know he has a shadow
or what it is cast from
When he moves from lamplight
and the moon cannot remember him
behind the scrim of rain and the shadow drifts
into illegibility does it add its unknowing
to the black page these lines are my shadow
are what the moon remembers
We think we see them flying by
in a whir almost invisible
until one alights by our table
I know from the way it looks at me
that we are the ancient ones
outliving fin and hoof and claw
outliving the water’s eyes and the wings
outliving these young things our spirits
Things come in at night
the voice of one locked out
the voice of one who locked him out
(this may be the last room they share)
The last I saw of the antlers
the cloud resembling a tomato
half materialized tree leaning
against years of gypsy weather
the old woman always
in the background always goes last and
she is the only one who comes back
but now you have decided to leave her
there her face whitewashed with relief
not finished enough to paint over
a tree begins behind her a brown stroke
in the foreground a young woman
her hands hold something valuable
you can see it in her face
even though the thing she holds
is almost out of the picture not yet realized
red vest light blue garment against
the yellow field past the dirt path
what will she hold and will she offer
it before the white brush comes down
you dab her face as if wiping away
a tear and promising her she will stay
the road darkens in the fading light
or is it growing relief the old woman’s
face does not change the tree
behind her branches off the canvas
[with a nod to bussokuseki’s “Earnest Offering” and ideas of erasure it inspired]
Smaller than a pen’s
mistake on paper
misplaced dosh
over the letter next
to the i are the wings
of the small insect
opening and closing at the
center of this thought
The breeze comes as promised
without rain but we don’t mind
so much is unreliable a sunny
afternoon unpredicted is welcome
and as last year and the years
before on summer days like this
yellow walnut leaves cascade
a promise the breeze won’t break
We stay with the day just another wave
sliding into the palm of sand so inclined
to hold what is offered even so briefly
as if time made a difference when
the difference has left us these lives
on the thin film between sky and earth
I’m good at earthquakes
you said and you at thunder
Remnants of clouds
wasps hovering over the hollows
The storm a black wall in the sky
a father turning his back
cars break the quiet
thoughts attending their own wake
and now you
are you you or what you mean
woke early to drive
Irish mathematician
to small town airport