The corner ...

Sometimes I hate the corner,

full of things, half forgotten,

silverfish-gnawed and water rotten,

turning into surprises, wrapped

in skin flakes, hair, and that—

that unspoken dictate, “Unmoved,

old-parts of us decay, making room.”

Sometimes I love the corner

in a moment of lifts and flings,

where “I remember this” briefly

as I dust it off, imagining—

The fresh-cell crunch of a hand-held

lilac blossom, purple, with

a green bug blotting the midst

of a single-day luminous, sheltering

bract. In a panic, I asked “Mum,

can I run back quickly, to where it's from?

”“Where—back in time?...” She laughed, 'No,'

and smiling held me—so “Let it go”

I said to my grip. (But yes, ma,

there I meant)

                      I let it slip.

                                       it went.

The turn-around stick ...

Phoo,                           phoo, 

                     phoo,                        phoo

my feet on dust. 

                                Don't       look at them much –

                                                          only when 

                                                                             jumping the curb.

                                                                    Mostly I see my forward hand –

                                                       loose like a swollen jaw,

                                               dripping off the pinky,

                   a stalactite off my back-swing.

                                                                                Also the ground upcoming –

                                                                           six or seven strides ahead

                                                          is about right to plan for.

                                        And in my head, I see

             the turn-around stick.

Planted by the fresh black

                  asphalt patch, conspicuous

                                    as a skin graft, where

                                               I used to hear cars hit

                                                                                            thum...

                                                                           thum-thum...

                                                                                                  thum...

                                                                                             thum

some dodging, some not,

                    the crumpled hole.

              Its sound would call to me,

                             5 miles from home,                               “here you'll be

                                                                                    far enough, done.” 

                           And I could touch

                                   that stake, leave a finger-drop fresh

             on the wood.             Then, SHHhhhh...

The balls of two feet 

                                            semi-circling.

                             Ten toe-pads grab-grinding.

                                                      And in 

                                           my head,                            

                             home.

The Rain ...

Day 1: Black clouds, suddenly.

                                                                          Let loose on the tan and dry.

Day 2: Washed the oil off the road.

                                                       And the birds from the sky.

Day 3: Thought it was earlier

                                      morning – in the dim I slept.

Day 4: I saw my mirror's smile

                             fading – like a secret kept.

Day 5: I went for a run; the rain

                       felt warm, by the sun above it.

Day 6: I drank what I'd bottled –
                 clean and pure and cold. “I love it!”

Day 7: I took a shower – that felt so

             stupid, but I did anyway.

Day 8: Had lunch with a friend.

         Our soup was warm, but what more to say?

Day 9: Thought about taking a trip,

         just to see if there was something over cloud.

Day 10: My neighbor's footsteps. To the fridge,

         the couch, the fridge. They're so so loud.

Day 11: Thought of heaven. Missed my
          grandpa for ten hours, off and on.

Day 12: I crossed my hands, in hunger –

            said “Så vi äter bröd i Jesus namn.”

Day 13: Wasn't so hungry. Didn't eat.

              Lay down on the floor. Such mud. All sinking.

Day 14: A thinning, bright cloud. By the time

                       It cracked, I was 

                           in a crowd outside. 

                                                Unblinking.

Shyness ...

What's delicate is             dangerous.

If it can flinch,   has teeth,    holds pain.

Everything, imbalanced—             sad, worried,

Hurt—                        can topple,         startle,      maim.

Look in:                                                  we sing songs of peace, but

                                                            Curse what interrupts our swaying.

We hum sweet words inside,                                                           but then

                                                                We're saying – outside – saying

                                     “That fool doesn't know how to listen right,”

And                    “What an ass, to let his turmoil show at us.”

And seldom 

                    “Here's my example, along your way,”

Or 

                “I too have felt unhelpably furious.”

                                    Everyone with stories 

                                        has a choice to make:

                                            Between small truths 

                                                         and large holes;

         Between               touching what's here 

                                                   and simply being with,

   Or                staring at and falling into nothings 

                                                                – mind, then soul.

                                                         I fell on the trail today, 

                                                            pulled my high-back,

                                            Stood up {scapula!!!}panging; 

                                                  needing to use my voice –

                                                And there was this child 

                                   who did not help me stand up,
              whose eyes were trained on my lips. 

                          So there's this choice: …