Sunday, June 17, 2018

Crow Bah

It’s so sunny and warm out this morning, even the crows are photosynthesizing. And it seems almost as if I’m not looking at them directly, but at their shimmering reflections in celestial waters.

My grandfather had a word for expressions like this. It was Bah.


Listening to the digestive processes at five in the morning,
and to the birds singing, and to the sound of traffic.

Are they one sound, or many?

Crows. Robins.

The flickers have been pulling up the drying moss
from the seams in the sidewalks and along the curbs by the street
to get at the ants.

Broken lines this morning.

Because everything is poetry?

But of course everything isn’t, the experts will say.
Or they will say, while stroking their imaginary beards,

Only in a sense.

This means they are wise,
and that, in all likelihood, I am not,
which is true, but not because
they say so.

With so many of us talking at once,
I wonder how there can be silence at all.
Or is silence the sum total of sound,
An infinite roar, a vessel rimmed with stars?

How quiet we are in the ground.

As if one needs an entire lifetime to learn the art,
when love is in, and out, and all around.

Saturday, June 16, 2018


To be an old poet is to be young.

Youth is old poetry.


Gray clouds on a locomotive’s back,
A cry at every crossing.

A penny on the track.

The price for what cannot be.

Warm, the scent of bare skin in summer.

Ripe peaches, whispering to each other on the table.

And that is how the first kiss came to be.

Old poetry.