Pain under my right shoulder

        If you read
        my poem
        about being 
        in the Sinks,
        in darkness,
        discovering
        that Old Seventy,
        in it flow,
        is poetry.
—–
         If you were there,
          with me,
          come outside now,
          into the light
          and see life,
          smell life,     
          touch it,
          hear its singing,
          and feel its pain,
          do not doubt it is
          a poem unborn.
—–
          Fescue has endured
           rain until it is 
           overripe.
           Yesterday
           and today the sun,
           begged to be the poem
            of hay.       
   

You were the wind,
breathing life into my ice-cold body,
after a long winter of darkness.

My fear was like the frost on the ground.
In the morning sun it slowly melted,
while my heart dared to beat cautiously.

You came with spring.
With flowers that sprouted,
and birds that sang.

With hope as a compass,
you became my light.
Winter was over,
and the midnight sun lit up the sky.
Finally I could see again.

A fly on the pigsty
gave a little hop,
trying to get a peek at what
was in the piggy’s slop. 

A wasp flew over
and the fly fell in.
Now he’s a-swimming
From the chinny-chin-chin.

Dislocation happens standing still
the world around blown apart
by outside forces that can never
be pretended away,
the result is nothing personal,
as in the before
there is silence in the after
when the view out the window
is not the one seen for a life time
not a different street
a different universe must exist
unrecognizable but familiar

The motionless journey begins
deadly dull
nothing happens
for days on end
and to have hope
hope is given up

There is no reason
for the thought 
that Land is space
and space is the mother of time.
Maybe walking
is the ways and means,
maybe not…
…the auditory channel
plays Beethhoven

Do not stop seeing
the world as it really is

i spent years writing poems about melissa and chris and nancy & lee, and the wines i wouldn’t let them pay for, the gelatos that slipped from my hands into theirs. it’s been years since my muscles naturally scooped and rolled and poured, and tonight it was i who tipped generously and left with an extra piece of cheesecake.

You texted to see if I was “pilled up”
(my euphemism for my nighttime routine of tooth brushing, medicine swallowing, and log sawing)
No, I said, palming my pills back into the bottle
Not yet, I said, putting the glass of water back on its perch

I am not prepared for your arrival, but you are here, declining the tea I hastily brewed while you looked for parking

So this poem is over. We’re starting the next.  

splashing in a sparse puddle
may delight someone who has not
submerged in the sea.

to be 

Artificial wind
Wonder what is natural
And what is of us