Home Again

From the way the pine needles
quake and sputter
I see the wind that will march across the lake
tomorrow or the day after
fluttering my back
as if I were still among the Colonials
and the deflated Santas of the day after
wandering in the music of the past
listening for the beat of tomorrow.

Tea Leaves

The afternoon comes on this side of town
with its desultory sounds of distant motors.
Their unseen contrails
leave me behind
to wonder over each cup of tea
if you too see the same tea leaves.

Again

I seem to forget
the touch I have come to know
learning its impress all over again
telling myself this time
I will remember.

Place de la Concorde

The fountain looms against the background of the unconscious.  A lone streetlamp reflects darkness in streaks, illumines the expanse of snow, and stands apart from the tenebrous interior.


Georges-Pierre Seurat's Place de la Concorde, Winter  ca. 1882-83, currently on exhibit at the MAM.

Online Shopping

The season addles
with pixelated smiles
and whirring screens mirror
my restive brain cells.

Tea and Transtromer

Tired of all who come with words, words but no language
I went to the snow-covered island.
The wild does not have words.
The unwritten pages spread themselves out in all directions!
I come across the marks of roe-deer's hooves in the snow.
Language but no words.


-Tomas Transtromer's From March '79

Abdication

My cat glowers softly
transmuting instincts
-there is that slow-lidded gaze again-
under the touch
a hand could give.

A law of nature
abdicated
he sleeps
paw to paw.