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poems on this page:< concrete >
< shoveling snow >
< clothes for the sun >
< summer love in spanish >
< years of water >
< weather from the north >
< the red heart and the silver heart >
< the universe >
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< concrete >
a condominium on the 23rd floor
one with a balcony
is NOT the place
for a poet
or even someone who pretends to be
a poet
you see
there is a sliding glass door to the balcony
and you open it and walk six feet
to the railing which is three feet high
and look down
23 floors
to
pavement
concrete with gravel
that gives it
a little texture
makes it
seem hospitable
but
from 23 floors up
it
is just as hard
as life
- - -
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< shoveling snow >
today i was shoveling snow
and if you do it right
(lots of small scoops)
it's good exercise
you know
it's been the snowiest winter here
ever
well
i'm sure the ice age topped it
but at least since 1840
it's been the snowiest winter here
so we
(my dog and i)
went out shoveling snow
(well, really, just me)
and i take one shovelfull
after another
and my rhythm works
with the rhythm of my heartbeats
one thousand
(scoop)
and one
(throw)
one thousand
(scoop)
and two
(throw)
and i don't think
of anything but snow
white
crystals
fallen here
crystals
white
and me
shoveling them
the creation of the universe happens
while i'm shoveling snow
and the universe ends
while i'm still here
shoveling snow
this whiteness takes me with it this whiteness
goes on forever - - -
< clothes for the sun >
the sun sets
with its beautiful clouds
"clothes for the sun"
my dead daughter whispers in my ear
whispers tonight when the moon is waiting
(the moon is her keeper now)
and she
is playing in the forest
happy in the moonlight
with all the others
and she tells me i
will join her soon enough
no need to hurry
please
do not be sorry for me
i have this moon
and am many times the jewel
here in the crown of heaven
as i ever was on earth
- - - . . . < summer love in spanish >
on the beach
in mexico
the heat of the sun
is too much
and i lie in the shade
of an old soft drink stand
not a popular beach
so close to the power plant
but close
to my dad's office
i'm here
visiting him
my terrible spanish
getting a little better
walking the streets
just looking
reading the signs
ordering pan dulce
it's so cheap
and every bun of this sweet bread
is beautiful
so every morning i go and buy a bag of it
and eat it the rest of the day
carrying it through the streets
looking at the signs
trying to read them with my dictionary
writing letters to my mom
never mentioning you
- - -
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< years of water >
i dream
of water
and the seals
barking
on the rocks
and i dream
of a deep lake
of navigating
the shores
of the lap and pound
of years of water
of willow strands
growing in a hidden path
of dark waves eating
through wet years
of escaping
and searching
for you
of the touch
of the water
of the fossil cliffs
rising over us
- -
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< weather from the north >
rocks
cliffs
morning breaks
with the waves white
the sky empty
waiting
for weather from the north
the last of a bright sun
followed by years of cloud
horizon to horizon
a gray cotton sheath
a dressing for a wound
the voices
the wind
the notes filled
the baritone waves
the chorus
the seabirds
the last of the sun
the bulb of the planet
it's fragile glass
sucked of air
evacuated
the sea boils
the birds explode
the rocks are
as they always are
the rocks survive
even the giants feet
the deep sounds
of their footsteps
of drums
slowly marching
with sabers and axes and
whatever else is needed
to render flesh to useful things
like soap and leather
as the giants of wicker
filled with men and women
start to burn
and men and women
watching from
the cliffs
the sea
are listening
to their cries
confusing them
with seabirds
and with children
changing them to music
only music
as the voices sing again
welcoming the clouds this time
welcoming the blanket
made of smoke
and silence
- - -
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< the red heart and the silver heart >
the red heart and the silver heart
the first
filled with blood
the second
with the lightness of clouds
the red heart
a sharp knife
swings at your finger
never mind who
(maybe your other hand)
but the steel inside you
stops the knife
with the skin split
and the blood waits
and the two sides of flesh
are translucent
and the bone at the bottom
is white and gray
and then the blood comes
to relieve this paleness
to give it life
flowing easily
warmly
thickly
brightly
but later
it is almost black
the red heart
filled with blood
the silver
as thin as breath
watch a tree
throw itself against the sky
the silver heart believes
the tree
is the forked tongue
of some creature
buried
beneath the earth
licking the air
getting a taste of the sun
and the red
sees only blood
the red heart and the silver heart
on quiet nights
hear each other
beating between their own beats
hearing the voice of the other
hearing the voice of blood
hearing the voice of air
and between the beats of both
hear
the continents
miles down
rubbing rock against rock
singing with their heat
miles and miles down
the red heart and the silver heart
keep slivers of consciousness
magic
like the rocks are magic
living in the weather
that comes from the sun
and at night
the red goes on
the heart filled with blood
filled with the brilliant blood goes on
but the silver heart must rest
from writing down the story
from whole pages of hands
needing eyes
and much is missed
but the silver heart must rest
the red heart swells
again with blood
again with temples and sacrifice
of black obsidian blades
striking down to stone
with only a million ribs between
the red heart fills
and empties many times
and drinks it all as food and still is hungry
while the silver sleeps
the red heart and the silver heart
read the list of names
and they are always finding more
engraved in walls
printed in books
and the names they roll
roll from the silver
roll
into the red
and all the names
yours too
the red devours
- -
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< the universe > upstairs
the rice cooks
and i
must be mindful
of the time
the rice
is not forgiving
done
at a certain time
ready
or gone
i
feel like rice
feel like the long ago
empty plain filled
with rice or wheat or
if necessary
high stalks of corn
lighted by a full moons light
lighted so they direct
our
full attention
to
the flash of weapons firing
the mental
the physical
pieces of metal
fast enough to spin through you
tearing whatever cells happen
to be in the way
out
off
gone
holes
you or i
won't mention the blood
the red
the original red
not read
as you're doing now
but red
as the light likes
the inside of us
rejoices when the skin must split
must give way
to the pure color of red
becomes a fountain
celebrating
the end of life
celebrating
the constant suffering
which makes us
pure
even as the portraits of
nixon and
stalin and
reagan and
some germans i won't name
grin over us
yes
they don't understand
in their illness
in their constant need
for attention
but we
have only to look
in their direction
to help them
to kiss their useful lips
we
a part of the constant pain
of weapons
of words
of the separation
of germ plasma
of DNA
we are
completely similar
arguing for the fun of it
killing our neighbors
just like the crabgrass
ignoring
the continuity
of us and snails
tragic?
no
the continuity of time
requires all of this
we
are along for the ride
and we kill
and we burn
whoever
we
want
random
molecules
compel
there is no
blame
and
from a place
way too high
to lean
into the wind
to fall
over and over
pointing
if possible
pointing up
so you don't
see the ground approaching
see the ground
which
in seconds
will crush
your skull
your body
will end
all this talking and words
will end
all this questioning
will end
this complete vacuum
which we call
the universe
the self
- - -
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