Monthly Archives: July 2018

Carters Lake on A Last Summer Weekend.

People dispersing into the colors of sky and leaf. Crows exchanging fragments of thought. Who is in the world, and who is of it? I don’t want to quote the entire poem, so here it is. Thanks to Jessica Mock for allowing the reblog. //JS


The amish people were in faded blues like a sky over an empty corn field at the end of summer when the harvest has left only dust and heat in the middle of no where.

The women had on hats and long dresses, boots laced up past their ankles. The girls walked almost along the edge of the water but they never touched it. They rippled away from the lake like little waves, becoming in themselves water, as if to remain separate from the external element itself. How strange it must feel to be in the world but not of it.

Fragments of blue dresses and sky disappear into the trees and I can hear an entire thirsty world wrestling against the breeze, not knowing where it is coming from but knowing where they are going.

After they are gone, the empty beach is a deserted cornfield. Crows fly in…

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The shoes


The shoes

When you are born you cannot feel the shoes.
You cannot walk. Carried on the air. One day

You take your first steps and your parents
Fear you may fly away. So light, the shoes.

For a few decades you gain traction
And the grain of the ground clings to

Your command on your sure-footed shoes.
Standing still and flexing your calves down

To your ankles shifts the whole world
For someone. Maybe you notice them or maybe

You are in love instead with the surface which
Whispers how it loved you first. Then each year along

The shoes the sole migrates lace-side
And a heaviness drapes and tightens

over the top of your feet while the lightness is
whittled away beneath the arch. Over decades

You go, each higher and harder to crest
Than the last. As you look back the river

Is wearing away the pass between the hills.
People wave from the shore as the mist

Arches down. The way ahead
is rocky and rain riddles

Its cross purpose signals into the soil
But your boots are sturdy and protect

You from what you drop and at times
You must be firm footed because of

What you carry. Sometime later, trudging
Up or down a hill, a level place opens up

And there are people there. They’ve taken
Off their shoes and are sitting on the ground.




Even if it weren’t happening now
As in a happiness in the past

Or a happiness anticipated
It can be read like a poem

Fixed in the climate of stars
Visible or invisible above us.

Not touchable but undeniably
Touching us like a breeze or shadow.

It’s not gratitude. Happiness gave its
Train ticket or last drink or favorite book

to gratitude and even if gratitude didn’t
Read the book it carried it on the train

And paged through it. Of course you can’t
Be grateful for a drink unless you drink it.

Gratitude’s empty glass. Book as a coaster.
The years of spilled thoughts. Happiness

Like apprehending the earth’s curvature
Or finding the denominator of God.

Whether you believe in it or not
It will keep saving you.

Talking after running


Talking after running

The heart after running is less likely
to lose itself to ledge or leap. It has

Asserted resolve over a measurable distance.
So if the heart leaps after running, it is more

Than a magnitude of muscle memory. Doesn’t
The steady heart know the world’s greatest

Victories are like fireflies in a July field
I walk across after the night’s mile has cooled

Me down? Steadier than these glimpses
Of what threads through us, across time

And space. Yet it leaps as though into the light
for words it might wander toward

If this path did not already describe it best.