‘Being Without Bent’
Light and shadow leaf out from the same tree
I sit under the roots of the sky grateful for absence
Because I know its shapes make the present
Present itself against this blue sincerity
It is too early for the crickets to give advice
The hornets of time find another corner of wood
As the porch shadow turns east and I sit in my new self
The climbing moon pauses on a mulberry leaf
And later on the neighbor’s roof unnoticed
The pale afternoon ladder has no rungs
But the moon turns slowly until upside
Down it can fall up the sky
Feathery cirrus, as if the sky itself were a wing.
What we see in the sky is the wing.
What we hear in the trees is the burden
Of signals. Darkness, intentions, darkness.
Everything will be defeated
Every thing we thought we needed
Easy enough to call the contraband
Memory but is it? We didn’t mean
To find ourselves at the border
Of the moment with unexplained
Stuff in our bags. Mood altering
Substance. Clouds move away
Inexorable as a tango. The earth
Rolls us forward with everything
Every hour’s hand has held.
Almost Silent, Almost Still
Crickets suffice for thunder tonight.
Like a leg rubbing up against another.
At the gate
Emptiness slips you a ticket to the after-party.
Thunder moon song
Imagine thunder, a year’s worth of it,
Crammed into a high speed second
Of replay: that’s a cricket.
Imagine a summer lawn full of them,
each chirp a year, an entire night
Of it, just below the grass line while
Above it every firefly’s a conflagration
Over territory, driving extinctions
And drawing death from the sky
Like lightning. Imagine standing
In your yard above it all. Oddly at peace.
Away from the lights of your house.
A few minutes go by. That’s the moon.