Thunder More Resonant

strikes

         the body a wrapped & ribboned rabbiting box

storm outside rehoused

                                     ongoing, retriggered

no sign it will stop

                           perhaps a rabbit’s inside

                           a famine of rabbits

                           pottage of chicks

one Buddhist carries the woman across the ford

another carries her forever

            capsule shudders, rocks

            the din makes it hard to do ought else

thumpitude

                 pitch batter clatter yaw

phenomena prefer to be exhausted

play to the rim

                      of flat mother earth

interruption is turpitude

                                    pink streaks connect blue flagons

penitent flutters of constriction

talionic justice

                     banditry, plotting, disguise

Does Grass Sing in Nahuatl?

grass grows

                   is rained on

              flattened by cows

         burned brown

    frosted

grass cut & braided becomes a wig

a basket for carrying fresh-picked berries

grass is a name

& if you know the word plant & the concept of taxonomy

you can draw the hierarchy of

                                               living things

                                                                  plants

                                                                            grass

all other branches

mowed

Here Is an Imaginary Place

constructed for my persona

here is inside

when the hours, the weather,

the activity make it so

outside when the persona

tires of herself

prefers the surprise of

a red-shouldered hawk

landed in the oak

next to a redwood deck

above yellowing willows

a hawk’s persona . . .

a raven’s, a cobbler’s bench

the scratch of a pen

is good company

if I’m writing

I’m not alone

ink to blacksmith to

candlestick to sealing wax

an envelope is a fold

to be sealed in

a horseshoe a curve

to be nailed on

if she’s on the other

side of a door

is she here?

she’s not absent

anything can wear her face

unless I forget the door

she’s still here

Before the Red Sun

Down a dozen railroad-tie steps

muddied by dogs & walkers come before me

the metal bridge spans a brown wrinkle

of rain-swelled water, eucalyptus bark

red-stripes the bank, twigs tangle green grass

& herbage, the water ripples like scars, like

skin on an old beat-up lizard, a tree

trying to grow out of the bank bends

forty-five degrees west for ten inches,

thirty degrees east for another ten feet,

these hardscrabble California woods

grub for whatever space remains.

Tall Grass Shivers

the hills above Boulder where I think

I can shortcut through grass

instead of following the trail around

going is rough, my pockets fill with seed

July mid-afternoon suns my back

I think of snakes, there could be snakes I think

& a rattler rises taller than the grass

body an S, head a wedge pointed at my chest

I tiptoe backward thinking don’t run, the snake is

six feet away & wants nothing to do with me

what if another snake coils behind me

snake eyes watch as I stutter-step

toward shorter grass, turn away, stumble

through scree back to the trail

let snakes own the tall grass

I hike alone because I am alone

because finding someone to hike with

is beyond me, besides, alone means

being on the hike, not conversing

about something else, not relating past

but sensing present — this outcrop, this

lichen — in Wyoming when Barbara & I see

the moose standing staring at us from the bog

ten feet off the trail, Barbara’s dog Lucy

still as she’s ever been, we stop

& watch silently until one of us murmurs

what should we do? the other says walk on

slowly, the moose watches, the dog follows

moose, head lowered, resumes chewing

The Way to Begin

a five-file run or a ten-mile bicycle ride is

as a beautiful relaxed animal, wrists & ankles

loose as sheers bellied with noon breezes

the first foot down begins the rhythm, down

the road & away, the same rhythm of squats

& crunches, the body a drinking bird

the head dips, thirst sated, the tail dips

relaxed does not mean at rest but every part

in perfect tension — warrior two, forward fold,

first position, & the breath tuned to the blood

mantra, not what is next, only what is now

what slows the heart, lowers the blood pressure

before some moment I lived every moment

as if I would never die, or as if the truth

that I would die could be ignored because it was

so far in the future, there was no threat

whereas now, death stands there wearing

Susan’s face — the moment before

when everything is still possible

the moment after when everything is over

to stand forever between these two moments

should not be but is my continuance

no purpose but waiting, every pointless moment

repeating, each day a little longer

I Pick Myself Up from the Dust Again

Why not stay here, make my home

the ground, cobwebs crusting my cheeks,

roly polys in & out of my ears & nostrils.

The world of dust is at least as interesting as

online news — more so for the surprises —

not some scrofulous indictable president

but iridescent wonders of the beetle kingdom,

dung beasts clacking through pale sand,

articulate feelers sharpening blades on

mineral duff, the infinitesimally small

spoor of ants, termite towers, rodent tunnels,

scraps of leaf dropped by constantly grinding

mandibles, the tragedy of creatures that

must feed all day for a chance at survival.

This crushed ant between my fingers,

under my toe, what attention

might I have spent to preserve it?

Wall of Fog

morning, a wall of fog hangs below

the upper stratosphere — nothing annoys me

more than a pen that won’t write — full

cartridge, good treatment, unwilling

to put words on the page, like a bike

with a flat tire when you want to ride

the ink is squeaking out at half the rate

it should be, the nib scratching, words

broken & pale, me shaking the barrel

every few strokes — oh, now

the ink’s flowing, we’ll see how long

that lasts, like Ammons with Garbage, I choose

a rhythm, suddenly there’s pink showing above

the fog bank, the hen that thinks it’s a rooster

crows to be released from the coop, inside the garage

the nineteen bantam chicks will be stirring like

the whisk they resemble, a bang from downstairs

means Ben’s going out to free

that bird, he’ll be grumbling or still asleep

birds & dogs both want release

when once again morning comes as if

their shackled suburban life were worth it

Fixed Featureless Splendor

             — an Octavio Paz cento

there are no dead, there is only death, our mother

she who was buried with open eyes

a lugubrious, lascivious clatter of heels

the flash of a skirt

a riddle shaped like an hourglass

a fluttering of opaque conjurations

a marching battalion of sparks

the sun's dagger dances on your warrior breast

flows through your shape, if fire is water

you are a diaphanous drop

more real than the body you inhabit

your body is the trace of your body

the fig tree was a goddess, the mother

the green hug of innumerable limbs

burnt by autumn, transfigured by autumn's light

it rises through diaphanous spaces

chases ghosts, stalks reflections

you light up within, you are blind stone

you kneading trough of bones

who flows through the whiskers of autumn

hands of rain darkened by birds, holiness

at the edge of a precipice of looks

I hear you throb in the shadow

a body caressing itself, tearing itself apart

death is the mother of forms

is expansion, the wave that stretches & breaks

the feminine mist of plants

not planet & not jewel but fruit

mother of the nomadic tribes, orphan

breasts of wine & belly of bread

delta of arms of desire, water of truth

on a bed of vertigo, truth of water

oven where the dead burn & the living bake

love letter with spelling mistakes

always torn from itself, to speak

while others work is to polish bones

a comb is a harp strummed by the glance

of a little girl born dumb

my aunt taught me to see with my eyes closed

to see within & through the wall

thought phallus & word womb

language is atonement

an appeasement of the speechless

you are naked like a syllable

like the wine in the glass pitcher

a warm rain of glances, your blouse

of the moon an arm of the sea

the river of language a pause of light

fountain in the night, plunging white

ideas ate the deities, the deities

became ideas, the feminine void

we were content with noise

Fractal

What if mind

reflects nothing

beyond the

fractal shape of

its folds:

each thought

a three-dimensional

accident of

unity,
closure,
curvature,

propinquity:

in older minds

the smaller

scale.

Like Velveteen

My chenille throw, the one Susan

gave me, did not quite survive the flu

because Ben put it through the wash

to make sure the germs were gone.

The softness is gone, the fringe

utterly tangled. The throw now

is like me — smaller, tighter, coarser —

to be loved for what we remember.