How it will come to you

sky for how it will come

How it will come to you, this joy
that rides in on pain and breathes
your inspiration. The one who
dwelled beside stands at the gate
waiting for another shining passerby.
In the tree, a conspiration of birds
abides this green nature. You had
forgotten how performance
isolates. But in this only moment
now, such surfeit, such grace.




Late in the Day

Late in the day we expected the day
to have no history and thus unhinged
we’d find true home someplace we’d never been—
there it was: clear shining space
in which we had new being because our
being had been excised till suddenly old
pain recalled old injury and we sensed
the phantom tail we dragged through those old worlds
we thought ourselves free of, then even the
memory of it encumbered all direction
till we faced forward only by default, how
we still felt the way we’d roared the burden
of it, the suffering of the finer selves
we’d finally become, when what we’d left
was all that was left, meager water holes,
dense foliage, volcanoes, steely sky.